Laila is impossible. Everything she does and says—which is a lot—grates on my nerves, and I realize by the time we arrive in Cleveland this is going to be a very long trip.
The plan is to push through to Chicago tonight, changing drivers in Cleveland. As we pull into the city around dinner time, we’re both hungry, irritable, and not speaking, thankfully. It’s an intentional cold shoulder she awarded me after the heated debate revolving around my daughter’s pending nuptials.
After that terrible conversation, which I’m sure she was dying to tell my daughter about but obviously has not, seeing as how Kirsten has not called or texted me all day, Laila put her noise-cancellers on and watched something on her phone. With her knees tucked up to her chest and her bare toes against my dashboard, I tried not to look over at her for the rest of the drive no matter how many times my eyes traveled over to the collection of woven bracelets around her wrists or the way she played with her single braid hanging over her shoulder. It was boring but quiet, and that was the most I could ask for.
Ten hours down. Thirty to go.
I wake her up gently as we reach the glowing yellow arches of a McDonald’s off the expressway just outside the city.
“Ugh, I hate McDonald’s,” she whines, and I clench my teeth.
“So do I, but it’s quick and easy.”
“Fine,” she huffs as she unclips her safety belt and climbs out of the car. Inside is too bright, and I feel everyone’s eyes on us as we walk in. No doubt they think Laila is my girlfriend, which I find far more comforting than them knowing she’s actually my daughter’s age. I don’t feel old enough to have a twenty-one year old, so the less I can appear like the father of an adult, the better.
After we order our burgers and fries, we find a place to sit. I pay for Laila’s food because…well it would be rude not to. And I’m trying to avoid any more awkwardness. I can tell for a moment that she’s contemplating sitting at a different table but settles for the bench seat across from me.
“My boyfriend is in Chicago,” she says quietly. “I’m going to crash at his place when we get there.”
My head snaps up to see her. “It’ll be late,” I tell her. “I wasn’t planning on going into the city.”
“His apartment is only fifteen minutes off the freeway. There’s a Holiday Inn Express with good ratings not far from there. Is that a problem?”
I can’t explain why it chuffs me to know that she made a plan without me. I’m the driver and the father. I should be the one making the plans, but I can already tell this is just how Laila is. Bold, too bold, to the point of being inconsiderate and quite bothersome.
“I guess it will be fine,” I grumble. “What does your boyfriend do?”
“Something with internet,” she says with a shrug.
“And why did he leave you in Boston while he went to Chicago?”
I’d say I don’t mean for that to come out so condescending, but that would be a lie. I entirely mean it to. Her eyes narrow at me as she puts the straw of her soda into her mouth.
“Well, for starters, I’m not his pet.”
“But you are his girlfriend.”
“With my own life and apartment and career.”
“So, what’s the plan? You’ll join him in Chicago?”
I’m pushing her on purpose. I’m talking to Laila the same way I talk to Kirsten, pushing, but in a fatherly way, with just a touch of harsh prick.
“Maybe. I don’t know…” She’s chewing on her lip, her fingers picking at the pink polish of her nails.
There it is. I hit a nerve.
“And does he know you’re coming to see him tonight?”
“No.”
Good grief, I think to myself. A boyfriend who hasn’t slept with her, didn’t invite her to move with him, and doesn’t know she’s about to ambush his life in the city. Why do girls put so much faith in young men? If only I could tell Laila what I was like at twenty-one. She may not realize it now, but her virtuous beau probably isn’t spending his Friday night alone.
“He works nights,” she continues. “So, I’ll probably have to take an Uber to his office, but that’s fine. You can just drop me off at the hotel. I’ll figure it out from there.”
“I don’t think so,” I correct her. “Chicago is a dangerous city. I’m not just dropping you off. I want to make sure you find your boyfriend first.”
She grimaces at me. “Thanks, Dad.”
A smile spreads across her cheeks, but I don’t respond. With just a furrowed brow, I hum gruffly at her and finish my dinner.
Back on the road with Laila behind the wheel, I try to rest, but I’m too busy checking on her to make sure she’s awake enough and knows where she’s going.
“I have a Red Bull, a classic road trip playlist, and GPS on my phone. Relax.”
Resting my head against the headrest, I let my eyes close and wait for the music to start. Maybe some good tunes will help me relax.
Then some annoying one-hit-wonder from the early 2000’s comes on, and I glare sideways at her, waiting for her to change it. Instead she joins in the song, tapping her hand against the steering wheel.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, sitting up.
“Sugar Ray,” she answers with a face that I could only describe as duh.
“I thought you said you had a classic road trip playlist.”
“This is classic,” she says, and the words literally hurt. Memories of uni come coursing through my mind as the song plays, sitting anywhere I could while I studied. The library, the coffeeshop, the cafeteria where I tried to drown out the din of this song playing over the loudspeakers with the headphones blaring in my ears. Oh, the days before noise-cancelling headphones were a thing.
Then I glance at the girl sitting next to me. Kirsten was still in diapers that year. Her mother, Liz, would drop her off at my mother’s house on the weekend, where I would fumble my way through being a twenty-year-old father who was also trying to make his way through medical school.
And all the while, this song played.
“Give me your phone,” I say impatiently.
I can tell she wants to ask why, but I don’t give her the chance. Grabbing it off the dash, I open the music app and laugh at the playlist she’s ironically titled “Classic Road Trip Jams.” There is nothing classic about these songs, and they can only dream of being considered jams.
“This is unacceptable.”
Flipping through the road trip options, I finally find one that is a bit more appropriate. The stupid Sugar Ray song ends, and the iconic piano chords play to an actual classic road trip jam.
“What is this?” she asks, glancing at me, and I point sternly toward the road.
“This, oh young one, is Elton John’s ‘Rocketman’. This is an actual classic.”
“If you say so,” she groans. And through the first half of the song, I refrain from singing but around the second chorus, it’s physically impossible. When I try to hit the high notes, she laughs, and it immediately drowns out the tension between us.
By the end of the song, she’s singing too, and I watch her hands tap against the steering wheel again. She doesn’t have a terrible singing voice either.
Flipping through the playlist, I get caught up in her new education. There are just far too many that this poor neglected girl doesn’t know. Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here”, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”. Thank fuck she’s at least familiar with The Beatles.
God, did I teach Kirsten enough of this stuff? Did I miss out on sharing my favorite music with her? Is it too late?
When I put “Hurts So Good” by John Mellencamp on, she immediately lights up, and I have to admit, it’s adorable the way she dances in her seat to the beat.
“I love this one,” she says when it ends and immediately hits the repeat button on the dash.
“This was my mother’s favorite song,” I say as a wave of nostalgia rushes over me. And just like that the words just slip out of my mouth. “I remember her listening to it with Kirsten when she was just a baby, dancing around the living room with her. Of course, back then, I was only eighteen. It was humiliating, but now…”
Laila turns her head to look at me for a brief moment, and I suddenly clamp my mouth shut. There is a softness in her expression, a tender downward curve to her lips.
“But now, what?” she asks.
I clear my throat which feels suddenly sore with something lodged there. Where did that come from? “Nothing. It’s just…a nice memory is all.”
It’s silent for a moment, and I try not to let my thoughts get caught up in those memories of Kirsten and my mother before Liz and Kirsten moved to the US and my mother passed. For ten years I stayed so far from my daughter. Ten years of her childhood—bloody hell, that’s half of her entire childhood I missed—and regret washes over me like it so often does when I think too much about the past.
“We need another song,” Laila says, pulling me out of my melancholy. When I look back at the phone I realize the Mellencamp song is over, so I scroll through the collection to find another. “I like these. Play me something else.”
Something warm sprouts in the center of my chest as I glance over at her, noticing the way she is looking toward the radio in anticipation, like she’s actually enjoying this.
Eventually, I settle on a couple from the Stones, and her singing quickly pulls me out of my sour mood. Laila and I get so caught up on going through songs on the playlist that we barely notice when the car starts chiming with the low petrol signal.
“Pull over here,” I tell her, pointing to a well-lit exit and large station full of cars and trucks.
“Want some coffee?” she asks as I start to fuel up the car.
“Yes, please. Black is fine.”
I find myself watching her as she crosses the parking lot to enter the convenience store. A hint of concern creeps up my spine, knowing that there are a lot of men in there, men who probably don’t see many young, beautiful girls like Laila very often. It doesn’t help that she has on skin-tight black leggings that accentuate the perfect round curve of her full bottom.
Wow, am I checking out her bottom right now?
Quickly, I glance away. That is highly inappropriate. She’s Kirsten’s age. What is wrong with me?
I mean…I guess there’s nothing wrong with just acknowledging that the girl is stunning. She has curly brown hair that she wrangles into a thick braid and those big green eyes set just far enough apart on her freckled face to make her look like a Disney princess.
I get so caught up in thinking about how wrong it is to be so attracted to my daughter’s best friend, I lose track of time and notice I can’t see her through the big window. She should either be by the coffee machine or the register, and I don’t spot her near either. Putting the hose back on the machine, I take off in a slightly panicked jog toward the store.
I’m sure she’s fine. She probably just went to the restroom. I may not like the girl much, but my dad instincts kick in instantly. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.
Tearing open the door, I stare at the people in the line. Mostly men and a couple women glare back at me as I scan the room for Laila.
Jogging toward the bathrooms, I spot her staring at a display of car chargers with a nervous expression on her face. “What’s going on?”
When she turns to see me, relief washes over her face. “Oh, hi honey!” she says too loudly before grabbing me by the shoulders and placings a quick dry kiss on my cheek. “Mind if I use the restroom before we go?”
Instead of staring at her in confusion, I glance around the store. That’s when I notice two young guys fiddling around with something mindlessly while their eyes keep coming back to Laila.
“Of course, love. I’ll wait outside the restroom for you.” I say it loud and keep my eyes on them so they get the hint and take off.
Then, I pull her close and let my lips touch her ear as I whisper, “Good girl.” I feel her shiver against me so I put a few extra inches of space between us. It’s not right to hold her so close.
Together, we walk toward the ladies’ restroom, and I stand outside the entrance with my arms folded while she goes in to do her business. I didn’t have Laila pegged for a girl with so much intuition, but she’s smarter than I thought. She caught those guys looking and avoided getting herself cornered in the restroom where they could make their move.
As she comes out of the bathroom, I link my hand with hers. “You okay?”
“Yep,” she answers with a smile, leaning closer to me. It’s not often that I get to play the protector, and I suddenly like it more than I expected to.
We get our coffees and walk together back to the car. The whole time, I keep her close, and I try not to think about how good it feels.
“Thank you,” she says, pulling away to get in the driver’s side again. “Those guys were staring at me like I was a steak about to come off the grill.”
“You did the right thing.”
Turning toward me, she smiles. I’m not supposed to be thinking about how nice it was for a split second to pretend she was mine, but I do anyway.
