It'll Happen Like This...

It’ll happen like this: 

In six months, you’ll tiptoe out the door, across the moon-frosted lawn, and manoeuvre your rounded belly behind the wheel of your neighbour’s ‘78 Corolla. It’ll reek of teenage delinquency—cheap cologne, mango-apricot vape and the formaldehyde bite of spray paint. Empty cans will roll like thunder on the floor as you reverse, headlamps off. 

Your boyfriend will snore on the couch while you check the fuel gauge, guessing how far you’ll get before the needle hits empty. 

Avoiding familiar roads and prying eyes, you’ll take the scenic route. You know he tracks your phone, so you’ll have left it at home, and you’ll have no way of knowing what lies ahead. Terror will almost turn you around on the outskirts of town. What if you break down and have to hitchhike home? Or worse, what if you don’t—can you do this alone? 

Then you’ll see the billboard, and you’ll sob over the steering wheel at the graffitied message that’ll feel as though it’s just for you; Even bad roads can lead to good places.

And you’ll keep driving. 

But that’s in six months: 

Right now, we’re at a neighbourhood party. The adults pretend not to notice the possessive curl of his hand over your collarbone, fingers denting your flesh, or your hand hovering on your stomach—protecting the reason you’ll leave. 

I notice, though. And tonight, I’ll drive my ‘78 Corolla to a billboard on the outskirts of town and spray paint a message, just for you.