by Noah McGee

"Are you disappointed?" Her lips are cracked; bright, pitted cherry-mark where they meet.

"About what?" My grip on the wheel is loose. My fingertips barely register it moving, just tickling the swirls and loops.

"About me?" She can't look. Her eyes are trained on a dead raccoon, stiff and bloated, as if it was overstuffed with puffy cotton.

We twist past the raccoon into the canopy shade. Our eyes have to adjust to the looming of the oaks. In the fall, when the acorns start falling, you must speed through this place to avoid damage. A million tiny ships fire cannonballs, anxiously trying to sink our ship.

I've waited too long to lie now. "Yeah, sometimes."

"I thought so. Me, too." She reaches over and slides her fingers in between mine. "Sometimes." Her fingernails press into my palm, but it doesn't hurt. I barely feel it.

We rock and bounce over the dirt road. I think about opening the door while we move, about gently rolling out of my seat.

But I wait until the wheels are still, the engine quiet.

"I thought you said we could see the sea... the sea the sea." She repeats, looking into the valley, sitting on the hood now, skirt reaching down past the bumper.

"Yeah," I look, squint in the sunlight, but I can see it's not there. The trees are too high, or the ridge. "I swear you could see it from here. I thought that's what I remembered." I squat, examine a rock, a bit of clay earth.

She's already back at the car door. The way she leans, the stooping, I hate it. "I think," she lays her head on the roof of the car. "I think you remembered wrong."

I toss the rock down the hill and barely hear a thonk when it hits a tree. "I could have sworn."

"Things are never as good as we remember."

A dead leaf caught behind the wiper blade crackles when I pick at it. "Not what I expected."

She pops the passenger door open. "I mean, the view is nice." She bites her lip with crooked teeth. "But it would be better if you could see the ocean."

She's right. It would have been better.

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