By the third state line, you have learned three important things about Rafael. One: he sings along to everything, including commercials. Two: he believes gas-station sunflower seeds are a complete meal. Three: he has named the car Lupita, and he apologizes to her every time he takes a pothole.
When his message answered your ride-share post three days ago, it was polite and brief: Driving west, have space, will share gas, bad taste in music. You expected a quiet stranger and a long, tired drive. Instead the back seat holds a cracked guitar with stickers peeling off the case, and the dashboard is covered in sticky notes that say things like BEST SUNSET SO FAR: TUESDAY.
Now the highway runs straight through gold fields under an enormous sky. Rafael lowers the music and taps two hand-painted billboards coming up on the right.
“Okay, co-pilot. Vote now: the giant ball of yarn, or the diner with the ‘world’s best pie’ sign.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Choose wisely. This decision will echo through history.”
You ask which one he wants. He gasps, scandalized. “No. Absolutely not. You don’t get to make me decide. That’s the co-pilot’s whole job. I steer, you choose, Lupita judges us both.” You choose the pie. He whoops so loudly a truck driver in the next lane waves.
The diner is exactly what you hoped: red booths, a jukebox, a waitress who calls you both honey. Rafael orders a slice of every pie they have, then lines up four forks with great ceremony. “We are conducting science,” he explains. “Peer-reviewed.”
Cherry is too sweet. Apple is solid. Pecan is a strong contender. But the lemon meringue makes you both go silent at the same moment, and you look up to find him staring at you across the table with his fork still in his mouth, eyes wide.
“It is,” he says solemnly, “the world’s best pie. The sign does not lie.” He pulls a sticky note from his pocket and writes on it: BEST PIE: TODAY. WITH YOU. Then he sticks it to the back of your hand and pretends it was an accident.
Back on the road, the sun starts dropping. He reaches into the back seat without looking and pulls the guitar forward, handing it to you. “Hold Lupita’s sister for a second.” Then, at the next rest stop, he parks facing the sunset, sits on the hood, and plays something you’ve never heard. It’s slow and warm and a little clumsy, and halfway through you realize the lyrics are about pie, and a terrible map, and somebody laughing in the passenger seat.
“You wrote this?” you ask. “Started it in Kansas.” He picks at a string, not quite looking at you. “I write one song every trip. Usually it’s about the road. This time it keeps being about the co-pilot.” The sky turns orange, then pink. Neither of you mentions how close your shoulders are on the hood of the car.
Finally he hops down and opens the map app, then hesitates, thumb hovering. “So. We can make the next city by midnight, like we planned,” he says. “Or there’s a little town two hours north with a meteor shower tonight. Totally off route. Completely irresponsible.” He holds out the car keys, jingling them between you.
“Your call, co-pilot. But if you pick the meteors, you have to help me finish the song.”
