"Nigga, Cali said. Told you, Ronny said. Tiny bladder. You're a grown man. And A.D.H.D.? Girl. Let's at least make it past the city, Cali said. I'm not stopping in Kerrville, Ronny said. No, ma'am. Still time to catch a flight instead, Cali said. Five minutes, Ronny said. Whataburger's right there! Attached to the gas station! Don't even have to stop the engine."
"She counted backward from a thousand. Maybe Ronny had changed his mind. Wouldn't be the first time. Probably calling a former fuck buddy to pick him up. Which meant Cali could go home, back to her bed in the Heights. Vic would be working and Andy was at camp, so she could spend the afternoon disassociating entirely, joyfully. Sneak in a joint or two."
Two friends set out on an impulsive drive from Houston toward Los Angeles in a rented red Honda CR-V with two suitcases. They make multiple short stops, and Ronny grows restless and insistent about minor comforts, urging quick breaks and rejecting certain towns. Cali oscillates between patience and private fantasies of returning home, imagining solitude, K-dramas, and snacks. Ronny's behavior alternates between joking and domineering, buying snacks and commenting on strangers. Tension and humor underlie the trip as personalities clash and practical details about driving and timing shape the journey.
Read at The New Yorker
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