This is only the third time I’m driving with her. Sometimes it’s the little facts like that, the seemingly unimportant shit that dawns on you once in awhile that puts things in perspective. I barely know her at all. She barely knows me, though I’m not sure if there’s any amount of time that connotes knowing. But here she is, stiff backed, hands gripped firmly at 10 and 2, eyes set dutifully on the road, to meet our half chosen, half default destiny. Not that destiny can be chosen I guess. I try not to speak for her. Mine certainly wasn’t chosen. Mine’s the default part.

It’s such a passive thing, sitting in a passenger’s seat. There’s nothing for you to do except sit, maybe pray you arrive where you’re going safely, if you’re self-indulgent. Whether it’s for five minutes or sixteen hours, you hand over your life to the person behind the wheel. Only the driver shoulders the half assed purpose to ensure the safety of the passengers. Only the driver has an obligation to the others on the road. As a passenger, these pressures are non-existent. You just sit. I’m relatively used to it at this point anyway, sitting in the passenger’s seat I mean. It’s where I’ve been my whole life, literally and figuratively, despite my best efforts. A college degree later and I’m still entre dos culturas. This day’s ride is equally passive and empowering. I guess letting others help can make you feel like that sometimes.

“Don’t say it,” she says.

“¿Besito?” I reply.

I point to my cheek and wait. ¿Besito? I say that every time she’s about to say something all too true that I don’t really want to hear. It seems she’s always about to say something true and I usually don’t want to hear it. I let what she says flow over me. I just act, speak, look, never think. I throw in ‘besito,’ avoidance in an attempted guise of humor, a reminder that we are entirely fucking different and that maybe just maybe no middle ground exists. Even after our two years of naïve hope we remain decidedly separate from each other, our hand tied blindfold of cultural denial still noticeably intact.

Sometimes I like to think I say ‘besito’ because it’s something she understands. Paints a better picture of me. We mutually understand that little phrase, as we do English. But I know that’s not the reason. It’s a never forget where you came from thing that I’ve engrained into myself despite my accent-less speech. Never let her forget where I came from. Even if I haven’t been back since I was three months old. She leans in and kisses my cheek. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road.

“Stop. We decided. We’re not turning back,” she states.

I’ve been staring at her this whole time. Giving her the once over as I so often do now. My eyes move with such ease up and down her body that I don’t even notice anymore. How American is that? Freely looking at my white, blonde girlfriend. I used to look away hurriedly, subjecting myself to the societal pressures that I let dictate my life incessantly. I’m not supposed to look too long, my eyes can’t linger, someone might get the wrong idea. She might get the wrong idea. But I guess one day I looked too long and I guess on that day she didn’t get the wrong idea because we’re together. Or maybe she did. Maybe our relationship is some sort of phony progressive step to satisfy her New York liberal sensibility. Maybe she’s proving some sort of mute, off the mark point by being in a relationship with me. But either way I’m grateful to her for it. Dating her at least forces people to question. Maybe he’s worth my time. Maybe he knows something. I have her to thank for that.

She removes her 10 o’clock hand from the steering wheel leaving a slight trace of sweat that disappears almost immediately. Her knuckles turn from white to pink. I know I don’t look angry. I never do when I look at her. But I must have looked awful thoughtful, or regretful or something to make her speak. We’ve gone the whole ride in silence. She fiddles with the small diamond ring on her finger. She turns it back and forth with her thumb. She’s done this a lot since that ring was put there. Nervous habit. I don’t turn away.

We look like we’re going to a fucking funeral. On purpose. If that doesn’t say something about us then I don’t know what does. Life’s little contradictions. We thought it would be funny. Our small attempt to add humor backfired. Now it’s just morbid. I regret wearing black, though god black looks good on her. It’s a slimming color, but that’s not why. She’s the only girl I’ve ever known that could be covered toes to the top of her neck in fabric and look just as alluring as a girl in half the clothing. She’s wearing a black turtleneck and pencil skirt. Both are just tight enough to know she’s just as beautiful underneath all her clothing. I’ve gotten so used to her conservative dress that it’s actually more appealing now. I can’t remember the last time I saw a Hispanic girl wear a turtleneck. I can’t remember a time I found a turtleneck attractive before her. Now that’s changing for someone. It’s an accomplishment to look at her in this way, to have earned the privilege.

I place my hand on top of hers, to stop her from fiddling. Her hand releases some of its tension with my touch. There’s no one to stare at us now. Maybe it’s the actually physical contact of our skin colors that makes me uncomfortable when we’re in public. I’m fucking with the collective American conscience. White womanhood still needs to remain untainted.

“I just wish it wasn’t you.”

She removed her hand from my grasp at the exact time that sentence finished dripping involuntarily off my tongue. Hand back to 10 o’clock. Back to perfect posture. The brief physicality between us forgotten. Fría. She says nothing. The dull roar of a car engine should never be the only sound, especially on a drive like this. A drive to my default destiny.

“I just didn’t want to drag you into this. It’s hard to let someone save you,” I say. I have to say something.

She shakes her head, then lightly touches the moist skin just below both of her eyes. Her eyes stand out twice as much against her pale skin when she’s about to cry. I think it’s the slight redness in them that contrasts dramatically with their bright green. I can’t turn away. Never can, even if she’s crying. Not that she cries often. She’s normally pretty good at pretending everything is fine. In a year or two we could take this drive with smiles on our faces, our blindness toward each other dissipating, free of my looming fate, family on the way. I think maybe it’s the thought of that. Our future now diminished beyond even slight possibility that gets to her sometimes. It gets to me too.

“I’m saving you?” she asks.

Rather than answer, I put my hand on her leg. I run it up and down her thigh, lightening my touch with each stroke. I slide it underneath her pencil skirt. My hand crawls up her leg. She relaxes slightly and closes her eyes for a second. Sex is my poor excuse for comfort. Abruptly she tenses.

“Fuck this country,” she says.

Fuck this country, fuck our situation, fuck me even. She’s angry on every level of her being, but devoted beyond all else. She has the right. She is in charge of two destinies. Back to fría. Defenses up. I pull my hand back in a jerky motion, a direct result of trying to move while appearing not to. She continues driving, apparently unaffected by what she just said. The tears are gone from her eyes, jaw clenched.

* * *

I feel her break before I realize we’ve entered the small town. It’s her favorite town upstate, two hours out of the city. Her family summered here when she was a child. It’s familiar to her. I’ve never been here before. There’s barely anything here, antique stores, a quaint café, a few small volume restaurants, a few houses. It’s different from the crowded streets we walk everyday, but not really. Same looks, they’re probably just a little more defined here. I’m sure people will do less to hide them. But here is where she wanted. I can see why. It’s calming to look at the gentle sloping of the mountains in the very beginning of what I’m sure is soon to be their fall glory. Maybe she needed the drive.

She pulls into a parking lot beside the largest building on the street. It’s old and brick, out of date. She unbuckles her seat belt and reaches into the back seat to retrieve a manila envelope that contains the papers. Sheets of paper that will finally serve as a rightful substitute for the ones I’ve been lacking my whole life. The door clicks open. She steps out without hesitation. That woman is always so sure.

I follow her, adjusting my tie along the way, staring at my shoes as they step out in front of me to make sure they don’t look too dirty or too worn. This day is important. I should look nice. I reach for her hand as we ascend the steps of the old brick courthouse. I feel a need to touch her, even if it’s just the tips of her fingers. She doesn’t fight it, but doesn’t slow her pace, doesn’t look back at me. She knows I’m there. She knows I want to be.

Our skins’ contrasting colors, the feel of the ring on her finger, all perfect in their utter contradiction. The way she leads me, always a footstep ahead. I feel the burning stares at our intertwined fingers. I look at her. She knows. She doesn’t care.