I open my eyes.

Outside the car, rain falls in heavy sheets. I can tell I wasn’t out long, because we seem to be driving through the same stretch of baron highway. Same passing power line poles, same drenched fields.

“It’s no use,” I say and scoot myself upright in the passenger seat. Rubbing against the leather makes that sound that Jim always giggles at. It reminds him of farts.

“Hun, we’ve still got six hours to go, you should sleep,” Jim says, reaching for the radio. “Is the music too loud?”

“Just watch the road,” I say.

I dig into his jean pocket and wrestle out his crappy phone with the shattered screen.

“Or you can stick your hands in my pants. That’s nice too,” he says.

“Didn’t you have an appointment to get your phone fixed?” I ask.

“I thought you were gonna do it.”

“Jim, you’re driving me crazy.”

“Nope, I’m driving you to Emeryville,” Jim says, and chuckles at himself.

I scroll through his photos: swimming in that secluded lake up in Tahoe, a blurry image of a falcon -I delete it. They’re good memories, but the cracked screen somehow highlights the negative in my brain. It reminds me that I was sick in bed eating nothing but salty

crackers for two days because of that freezing lake. The bad bird pic reminds me of when he forgot to schedule a wedding photographer.

“This trip’s gonna be worth it. Dave said they only request face to face interviews with the top three applicants,” he says.

“Your brother’s hook up didn’t work out so well last time,” I say.

“This time it is going to work out so well. Super well. Unbelievably well. Sir Wellington the third well.”

“You’re a dork,” I say.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

“I can’t sleep when your driving.”

“Why not?”

“How late were up last night? 2:30?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” He says, yawning. “I got this. Just relax.”

I lean back against the window and look at Jim’s phone again.

I’m looking at a picture of us in our Sacramento apartment, just before we moved to Fairfield, when his phone shuts off. He always forgets to charge it. The steady bob of the car begins to lull me and I close my eyes.

I’m startled awake by a loud, repeating sound coming from outside the car. I can feel it under my feet.

“Flat tire,” Jim says.

The rain sounds louder once Jim pulls to the side of the highway and hits the emergency lights. I squint against the window to take in our surroundings. It’s just more farmland, more power line poles, and more road. I fold my arms close to my chest; with the car off, I’m already getting chilly.

“You know what,” he says.

“You didn’t put the spare in the trunk,” I say.

“I meant to do it before we left.”

“Well, good. You meant to. I guess I can rest easy knowing you meant to take care of everything.”

“Hey now,” He says and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“You should have checked the tires for air pressure,”I say.

“I didn’t think about that.”

“You don’t think about anything.”

“Jeez, I can’t stop a rock from blowing a tire,” Jim says, throwing his hands up.

“But you could have been prepared with the spare. I swear I can’t count on you for anything.”

“Oh, all of a sudden you can’t count on me for anything because the tire blew?”

I sit up right and feel a volcano of anger erupt from my gut. There’s no containing it now.

“You don’t think things through. You don’t follow through with anything worth while.

You won’t even make your own stupid appointment for your stupid phone. How many jobs have you had since we got married? Four? And now we’re driving all night on a flimsy chance of a job that’ll probably mean we have to move again, but I’m not moving for a job you’ll abandon in a year’s time.”

Jim shuts his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Why does one little thing have to spiral into the end of the world with you? We’re talking about a flat tire.”

“No, this is about you half-assing everything in life and leaving me to take care of it all,” I say. A car speeds by and it rocks us like were in the middle of the ocean.

“That’s totally not fair. I’m trying.”

“That’s the problem. You try. But you’re a series of letdowns.”

The words hang in the air. I can’t grab them back. Jim looks at me with a silence that kills. We stare away out our door windows and listen to the rain for a while. A slow rumble of thunder spreads across the sky, playing like the soundtrack to my bad mood.

“Where’s my phone?” He finally asks.

“It died. And I left mine at home.”

Jim doesn’t respond. He could have let me have it about leaving my phone at home. I left myself wide open for a shot. But he doesn’t take it. He just stares out the window, breathing heavy. It’s so hard to have an argument with him.

“I see town lights up ahead. You wait with the car and I’ll go get a tire or help or something.”

“Alright,” I say.

Jim hustles to the trunk of the car and digs around. He then jogs to my window, already drenched.

“I, uh, forgot to pack an umbrella.”

It’s not funny, but we both laugh.

“Ok. Well,” Jim says, looking toward the city lights, “I better get going.”

“Ok.” I say.

Our smiles fade, like our faces just remembered we were fighting. I watch Jim trudge down the road in the rain without an umbrella.

Without much sense.

Without me.

“Jim, wait,” I call out, “I’m coming with you.”