The Boy Just Can’t Help Himself
by Shauna Checkley
Careening down the highway, Eddie white-knuckled the steering wheel. He tromped on the gas. Like he was commandeering a rocket ship rather than his Corvette, he stared grimly ahead. Without taking his eyes off the road, he said, “Prove that you love me.”
With her face crumpling in disbelief, Phoebe said, “What?!” She wasn’t sure that she had heard correctly over the din of the car radio.
He flicked it off. “Prove that you love me,” he repeated.
The car was whining and lightly shaking as he continued to accelerate. Though it was a brand-new 2022 model, gleaming and screaming yellow under the summer sun, it was not without complaint as it was pushed to its limits.
They whizzed past a sign so fast that Phoebe was unable to read it. All was a whir and a blur.
“Ed you’re going way too fast. Slow down,” Phoebe warned. He was driving flat out, as fast as the car would go. “Ed, c’mon!” she cried.
Phoebe stared at him in disbelief. Only minutes before, they had been chatting, one of those desultory conversations about nothing and everything that ran the gamut from lunch to the weather to baseball stats.
“Eddie, stop!” she pleaded, her voice an octave higher and desperate.
But he continued to stare straight ahead, unflinching.
Fortunately, the TransCanada was sans traffic that afternoon. The weather was clear and calm. Small blessings in a day that had suddenly gone awry.
“Why are you doing this? Do you want to get us killed?” she hissed.
“Prove to me that you love me.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
She stared at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”
He was coolly detached. With his stubble and sunglasses, he appeared like any other driver on the road, except he was travelling at lightning speeds. Like Hermes in a chariot, he rocketed along.
Phoebe felt a wave of anger and revulsion. Why is he doing this? What is he trying to pull anyhow? Is this some adolescent plea for attention or a ploy for sex? Oh c’mon! We are almost thirty now.
Yet she recalled another such occasion. It was when they were out for a walk a few months ago. And while crossing a suspension bridge, he suddenly climbed on top of the edge and threatened to jump unless she unequivocally declared her love for him. There were other minor incidents, too. But that was the most salient one.
They thundered along. Phoebe could hear bugs and pebbles hit the grill. The front seat passenger window vibrated, hummed. The new car smell of the ’Vette seemed somehow obscene.
“Prove that you love me,” he reiterated.
“How? What do you want!”
He sat steely, unmoved.
The moment felt surreal to Phoebe. Like it was just an abstraction that she happened to be there right then, that the tires had begun to scream, that they were enclosed in this death machine in overdrive.
She stared at him in disbelief. He sat rigid and tall, all legs and blue jeans. Realizing that he was unlikely to relent, Phoebe opted to give in, to try and placate him somehow. “I love you, Eddie! I love you! But please stop!”
“I love you!” she repeated.
But he was silent and handled the steering wheel as if he were clutching it by the throat.
“Ed, the road curves up there!” Phoebe shrieked and pleaded. “It’s a winding road from here on in! You’re going to get us killed!”
She made a quick, silent prayer to Jesus.
Saliva and sweat dripped from her.
“Iloveyou!Iloveyou!Iloveyou!” Phoebe screamed. Right along with the ’Vette, her heart and her whole nervous system raced.
Her eyes had rolled back partway into their sockets. Her face had distorted until she no longer looked like herself. Rather, it was just like she wore a mask of fear instead, like the ones stores sell for Hallowe’en. She burst into tears.
Then he took his foot off the gas. He began to lightly apply the brake and decelerate.
Within minutes, they were seemingly back to their Sunday drive. He flicked the radio back on. It was all Boy Bands. One. After. The. Other.
Still sobbing, she closed her eyes and silently thanked God for a return to normalcy.
However, pop psychology had begun a staccato parade through her consciousness. The narcissist versus the empath. Toxic masculinity. Dysfunction. High power needs. Personality Disorder. Criminal tendencies. The list seemed nearly unending. It came to her from classes. And from all the magazines at the office where she worked. Even tidbits from social media, too.
She settled on one diagnosis: Malignant Narcissism. ’Nuff said.
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Phoebe snuffled.
Then he turned and grinned broadly and said, “I love you, too, babe.” He was unfazed by the whole incident.
She looked at him incredulously.
Neither spoke until they turned into a roadside service station outside Thunder Bay. “Gotta get some gas,” Eddie muttered.
Nearly leaping out of the car when it came to a full stop by the gas pump, Phoebe bolted.
She began texting furiously to her brother: At Rory’s Gas outside Thunder Bay come get me please from psycho Eddie!!! Please emergency!!! Then she exhaled deeply.
By then, Eddie was pumping gas and looking at her curiously.
She strode up to him. “You’re like a suicide bus right out of the Middle East. Or a one-man convoy. Yeah, take it to Ottawa. See how they like that scene.”
Eddie shrugged. “Aww, c’mon.”
“I’m not getting back in your car for anything. I’ll hitchhike if I must. It’s probably safer.”
Turning on her heel, Phoebe walked straight into Rory’s diner, which adjoined the gas station. She ordered a coffee, black, and waited for her cellphone to ring.
Copyright © 2022 by Shauna Checkley
