The old Dodge is the color of summer wheat. All gold and scratchy. It is racing down the Interstate and the windows are lowered to let in the wind. Lyllian’s long dark curls are almost straight as they whip in and out of the passenger side window. The strains of guitar screech through the speakers in a loop of grunge ridden rebellion and young minds. Lyllian’s mind feels addled. The decision to go on a road trip with Michael the summer of her eighteenth year was a good one. For her anyway. For her mother and father it was a lack of respect. An immoral decision built on immature rebellion and misguided resistance. Battling the wrong enemy her father said. Disregarding your faith her mother said.

Following her passion she said.

Her passion was passion. Love. Speed. Openness and experiences. Free thinking and nothing stifling her. She was in love. She was in control of her destiny. Of her mind and body. The decision was hers. Not her parents. Not Michaels. Just hers.

And she’d decided she wanted to experience love and passion now, not later. Not in some clean and quiet suburban home with a fence and a mailbox. A flower box near the door and a place to hang the keys. A coffeemaker and calendar. A wedding album and an alarm clock. A small backyard that was a box, much like the box next door and the box next door. The blue glow of prime-time television sitcoms with forced laughter and dry good night kisses. Sunday night dinners with the parents asking about her plans. His plans. Baby plans.

She wanted fireworks in the shape of stars and red-hot kisses that are not meant to be stopped. She wanted wind in her hair and long empty roads with U-Pick Strawberry signs. Burger joints and rolled joints. Music on the grass with rum in a water bottle and sunglasses reflecting the sunrise.

She was taking what she wanted. For once she chanted to herself. She can feel Michael in the seat next to her. His black hair blowing and curling. His smile and talk. The way his eyes pin her to her seat and stay there. The comfortable way he listens to her talk about her writing. The pulling over to stretch their legs and touch each other in the sunlight. This is right and good. The sun is getting lower but they are almost there. This was a big moment. She was taking a step towards something and she was both exhilarated and afraid. There was no question of backing out. She could not even if all the world was against her. She picked him. She loved him. No other.

Next Chapter: Anne, New York, April 1950