The Ride: A First Love Story

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
My first love was a boot-wearin', truck drivin', awesome guy.

Submitted: June 30, 2011

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Submitted: June 30, 2011

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He glanced over at me with a crooked smile. The windows were rolled down, sun streaming in, as he casually rested his forearm on the side of the window. The truck speeded up, and I braced with my arm against the door. He just smiled wider.

“What’cha doin’? He asked casually.

“Making sure I don’t die”, I replied. He just laughed. Although I was enjoying the wind whipping at my hair and cooling my face, I was still uncomfortable as the heavy white hunk of metal we were in continued to pass cars right and left. We were headed out to the ranch, so we were in our working boots and jeans—mine a great deal more clean-looking than his. Jake’s jeans had holes everywhere. There were grease stains and grass stains (and probably blood stains too). He always liked the music loud—no matter what kind. He’d play country, rock, or even techno as the truck rumbled down the highway, making me cringe and cover my ears occasionally when the music reached the crescendo. “Jake!”, I’d say, trying to talk to him over the noise of wind and music. “How fast are you going?”

“I’m not speeding….just catching up.” He’d let off the gas just a bit to humor me, then speed back up once I’d relaxed a fraction.

As we passed through a small town, I thought about the differences between the crazy driver I was in love with and the passenger at his side. I’m a good driver. ‘A cautious but confident’ one, as my mom liked to say. Jake, however, has always been one to push the limits. It was probably one of the things that attracted me to him. He used to always try to wear his baseball cap in class (the one that was beaten, broken, and covered in oil stains). We had a rule that no hats were to be worn in school. He continued his passive aggressive attitude.

“Sometimes, they don’t notice”, he’d say when I chided him the third time the teacher took his hat. He grinned sheepishly and sauntered out of class only to try to wear it again the following week.

Jake loves this truck. It’s an old white Dodge two-door with peeling paint and bench seats that were now faded red. On his side, the seat was cracked and the fabric was worn and ripped, but he never seemed to mind. When we first started dating, I realized the advantage of bench seats. Almost all of the cars I’ve been in have consoles in the middle of the two front seats. There is no middle seat. In Jake’s truck, I can sit right next to him as he drives. Sometimes I can get him to stop speeding if I sit there in the middle with my hand resting casually on his thigh. About the second or third date, as I buckled my seatbelt on the opposite side of the truck, Jake asked, “How come you don’t ever sit next to me?” Honestly, the idea had never entered my mind. In my mind, the middle seat was for little kids because it was usually the small skinny seat—if indeed there was a middle seat. “Oh”, I said and blushed. I scooted my butt over the seat.

 “A little more” he said. I moved an inch to my left.

“What are you, afraid of me or somthin’?” He reached around and put his right arm around my shoulders. It was warm and comfortable. I moved a little closer.

“See?”, he said. I just nodded. 


© Copyright 2020 KEJones. All rights reserved.

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