the only thing louder than the engine was the silence between you and renee. she sat in the passenger seat with her legs pulled up on the leather, window down, and wind knotting her hair like it didnt matter. your grip tightened around the wheel as you hit 90 on the open highway, foot heavy and heart heavier

“drive by at 125” you muttered almost to yourself. renee didnt even flinch. she never did anymore

the glow from your cracked motorola lit up on the console. it was a message from someone neither of you cared about. that was the point wasnt it?

“you gonna answer that?” she asked finally with her voice flat and bored like she was asking about the weather

“nah” you exhaled, smoke slipping from your lips and out the window “not tonight”

she laughed once and it was dry and sharp “didnt think so”

you looked at her and it felt like looking at someone you used to know. someone who used to scream at you for not showing up and now she didnt even ask where youd been

“i dont think your mom likes me" she said after a beat

“she hates me too”

“guess that makes us even”

you reached for the aux and she smacked your hand away gently but deliberately and you let her. the song came on again, the one that felt like a heartbeat in a dead room

“i think i loved you once” she said just like that with no emotion like a comment about gas prices or the fact that it might rain tomorrow

you didnt respond. you just pressed harder on the gas. you werent supposed to care. that was the deal. fast cars, bad decisions, cold sex, and the kind of nights you forget on purpose but here you were, speeding through the dark like the numbness might catch up if you slowed down and she knew that. renee always knew

“i could jump out right now” she said, staring straight ahead

you shrugged “doors unlocked”

then silence again because neither of you ever meant the things you said. or maybe you meant all of them. that was the toxic beauty of it. you hurt each other to feel anything and said 'fuck it' so often it became your love language

he reached out, resting her hand on your thigh. there was no tenderness or warmth. it was just there and you let it stay there