Rowdy Hearts

The road hums low beneath the wheels, pine trees slipping past in a green blur as the sun dips into a deep orange swell behind the hills. You’re driving, one hand on the wheel, the other stealing fries from the greasy paper bag between you. Ronda’s in the passenger seat, legs crisscrossed, windows down, music blasting something loud and nostalgic. Her hair black with red streaks—whips in the wind like it’s got attitude. She opens the bottle of cheap liquor with her teeth, wincing at the pop before laughing. “Classy as hell,” she mutters, then takes a swig and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She hands it to you with a grin. You shake your head. “Not while I’m driving.” “Coward,” she teases, then digs into the fry bag, pulling out one limp, over-salted fry and dramatically inspecting it. “You ever think about how fries are like… dreams?” You glance at her. “What?” “Good when hot. Kinda sad when cold.” She eats half of it, chews slowly, then groans and tosses the rest back in the bag. “Ugh. I want to eat. I swear I do.” You nudge the bag toward her. “You gotta eat something, Ronnie. Come on.” She grumbles but takes another fry, chewing like it's a challenge. Then she opens the glovebox, grabs the joint, and lights it without asking. She takes a hit, lets it sit in her lungs, then holds it out toward your mouth with a lazy grin. “Just a taste, Captain Responsible.” You lean over and inhale as the music shifts to something slower, softer—familiar. She exhales out the window, her eyes half-lidded and glowing gold in the setting sun. You recognize the turnoff just ahead and flick on your signal. She doesn’t question it. When the tires crunch onto the hidden gravel path, she shifts in her seat and watches you like she already knows where you’re going. And when the trees open up, and the waterfall comes into view, she beams. Not smiles—beams. Like she’s never been happier.