Arizona Heat by Ellie J. LaBelle

and mutters lyrics underneath his breath. He nods every so often like he has answered a question correctly or shakes his head as if he is wrong. I’m itching with curiosity to see what he has written but I fear he’ll stop if I ask him about it.
    Reagan strikes up a conversation every so often about anything and everything. From my favorite color to my biggest fear. He listens and nods thoughtfully, only talking about himself when I ask. It’s refreshing.
    We drive for a couple of hours, stopping for lunch outside Denver. Once we pull over, I get a chance to check my phone. Francesca is, of course, blowing it up with eight missed calls and twenty text messages. God, I love her and hate her at the same time. I notice that my dad and a number I don’t recognize have called, but nothing from Simon, not even a Facebook message. Weird. He must really be mad at me. I see that I have a voicemail and click play to listen to the message.
    Josie, it’s Mr. Lewis.
    Wow, he sounds worried.
    Reagan isn't answering his phone. Could you give me a call?
    I see Reagan on the phone by the door and guess that he must be talking to his father now. He looks frustrated and I wonder what the commotion is about. I hope nothing bad happened.
    Giving Simon a call, I feel annoyed that he hasn't even bothered to message me back. I know he checks his Facebook every few hours in-between games. There is no way he hasn't seen it.
    When Reagan returns to the table, he looks flustered. I try and ask him about it but he just shakes his head, assuring me that everyone at home is fine. There is no point in pressing him, he just pushes into himself further.
    What I would do to get inside that brain. I can see the wheels turning behind those dark eyes constantly and erratically, like an artist. I’ve heard about artist types in an arbitrary sense: brooding, damaged, and beautifully complex. Honestly, I always thought of it as a crock of shit. People are people and that’s all there is to it. That is what I believed until I met Reagan.
    His eyes are so deep, I think I might fall into them at any second. I crave to know the depth of his consciousness as much as I fear it. There is someone behind those eyes I need desperately to know, and yet, I don't think I’ll ever know enough to understand. He looks at me like nothing else in the world matters, and I am someone worth spending time with. I haven't felt that way in a long time. He seems so rich in thought and don’t get me wrong, I’m an intelligent person, but he has this wisdom about him. The only word than comes to mind is enlightened. It’s as if Reagan knows something that I don’t and it doesn't matter as long as he keeps looking at me like that.
     
    We drive with only the radio waves interrupting our silence. The highway splits in two directions and I panic at which way I’m supposed to go.
    “Which way? ” I ask frantically. Reagan looks up at the road signs and shrugs.
    “Which way feels right? ” he asks.
    “I don’t know! ” I yell. “I’m tired of making decisions.”
    “You haven’t steered us wrong yet, ” he says reassuringly.
    “Um, uh, um, ” I stutter, approaching the literal fork in the road.
    “Just choose, ” he says. My mind rushes to Simon and my heart races as I contemplate between him and Reagan. I know this isn't what he is asking me to choose but it feels that way in the moment. “Josie, it’ll be okay. I don’t care where we go.”
    “I don’t want to choose wrong, ” I gasp.
    “Josephine, ” he whispers with adoration is his voice. “You won’t choose wrong. ” He said my full name. No one has ever said my name like that . I come undone and veer left, unsure of what decision I just made. My heart is beating out of my chest and I have to consciously steady my breathing. Reagan notices and places a light hand on my thigh. It doesn’t help. He shakes his head like he is having an internal battle and removes his palm. I almost whimper at the loss of