Rootbound

by Tarah DeWitt

Charlie is a Shania guy, apparently, a fact that delights me. I’m singing along at the top of my lungs without the bummer of having to hear myself, the roaring engine blocking out the sound. I haven’t felt so much pure, simple bliss in forever. The heat is intense, but the speed keeps it off of us and morphs it into a pleasant, breezy blanket that pours over my skin continuously in waves. I’m aware that the impending awkwardness of whatever this rekindling is will be intense, but I feel an easy contentment settle on me, despite the chaos that carries us across the valleys and over hills. Sometime later, as I’m singing along to Brooks & Dunn, “Mariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeee, Oh, my Marieeeee—ieee—aaaaahhhhhh!” loud laughter booms in my earpiece from three male voices as Charlie lets off the gas. I see Henry and James ride up, holding their sides, trying not to fall out of their saddles. “Tait”—gasp—“your radio button is still on,” Henry’s voice gets out in between bouts of laughter. “Honey, you cuss like a sailor on HBO,” comes Charlie’s reprimand. Oh, God. All the sound effects. “How long was it on?!” I ask. Henry snorts and starts dying again. “The entire time,” says James. Cool, probably forty-five minutes of me saying whoop, whoop at every little hump, and singing directly into their ears when I couldn’t even hear myself. That had to be gold. Oh, God—the singing. “Were those Muppet impressions?” James asks. Kill me now.

😂😂😂