So that was that; I’d decided. First things first, I changed into a low-cut V-neck shirt and some skinny jeans and found Joel lying on the couch, reading something on his phone. I stepped in front of the couch, bent over and asked him “Hey sweetie, just wondering if you’d like to do a huge favour for me?”
He turned his head, and it was fairly obvious where he directed his gaze at first. As always, I didn’t know whether to feel flattered, violated or guilty. A few seconds later, he looked me in the eyes. “What’s up?”
“Well, you’re heading to Melbourne tomorrow, right? I just had this idea and – sorry it’s so last minute – and I was hoping you’d let me hitch a ride with you so I can surprise your dad while he’s at that conference?”
He seemed taken aback, and I can’t say I can blame him too much. I’d never asked to come with him when he was working before, and it was very last minute. He thought about it for a little while, and finally replied with a resounding, “Sure, whatever you want.” He paused. “But there’s a couple of conditions. One, you can’t criticise my driving. Two, the motels have already been booked as single rooms, and it’s probably too late to change the bookings for a double.”
“Alright, that’s fine, sweetie. And I completely understand about how last minute this whole thing is, so I’m happy to sleep on the floor or the sofas or whatever they have. Thanks so much, Joel.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and left promising I wouldn’t say a word about his driving.
At 5:30 the next morning, Joel tossed my luggage into his truck with the rest of the cargo and our little mother-son road trip was underway. At first, I did what I could to sleep while we drove, but I just couldn’t relax. Every so often, I’d feel my head lolling from one side to the other as I started drifting and then suddenly I was awake again with a start. That probably happened 15 times in the first hour or two of the drive. At the same time, Joel’s driving probably didn’t help me relax either. He tailgated a few drivers that he felt cut in front of him, he sped a few times, and more than once overtook a slow car without a safe enough gap between us and the oncoming traffic. But, I kept my promise and my mouth remained shut. As I predicted, I caught him sneaking a few peeks at my body when he thought I wasn’t looking, and of course I felt my old Neapolitan ice cream flavour of emotions: flattered/violated/guilty. That didn’t stop me from “stretching” my back at one point while thanking him yet again for taking me with him. I arched my back, pushing my breasts out as much as I could against the seatbelt, putting on a little show, which I considered to be a little reward for him.
Once I realised I wasn’t going to be able to sleep, we would chat every now and then, sometimes about how Kirsty must be going in London. I would ask him how he’s enjoying working as a truck driver, and ask after some of his closest childhood friends who he’s still keeping in touch with. Depending on the topic, he’d reply with barely any words, or he could talk for miles on end. I guess that’s always the way with parents and their kids, though – once they reach a certain age, they suddenly realise they have a choice and can just choose not to talk if they don’t want to, especially if they think you’re “nagging” them, as I’m often accused of.
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