.ii.
She feels, as of late, like her days can be measured by the stretches of silence spent in the passenger's seat of Paul's car and that one time he actually let her get behind the wheel. There's no rhyme or reason as to when and why they go, but most days they find themselves cruisin' up and down the highway, around his neighborhood and hers, killing time and miles. Paul says that her truck must be feeling neglected, but it's just not the same in her old red clunker.
He controls the radio, she controls everything else. She expects, the first time, to be bombarded by rap and metal, instead he listens to an endearingly eclectic mixture of rock, country, and 80's music. He knows all of the words to "Bohemian Rhapsody" and he loves to sing "Don't Stop Believin'" at the top of his lungs.
She learns all kinds of new things when it's just them and the road. He tells her about the whispers around the Rez that Embry is his half-brother, his love for metalwork, and how he and his mom used to go to a Thunderbirds game every year. She feels like she should add something, spill her own secrets, but Paul knows her darkest ones already. She's at a tactical disadvantage. If he learns any more she might be forced to admit that she's actually let him in, of her own volition, and the thought halts her in stark terror.
Paul understands. He never pushes. She feels guilty and undeserving of his loyalty.
They don't talk about it.