Whoever said that love solves everything can choke on my big, fat hog. Love makes everything more awkward and slightly more insecure, like being around a 2 y/o toddler whose uncle taught him how to say fuck for shits and giggles.

Case in point, this is the most awkward car ride I've ever been in. I didn't speak to Hayden after yesterday's... situation? Declaration of unbridled love? Let's go with situation. And just like The Situation, it's all abs and mediocre chemistry once our moment to shine faded away. Don't get me wrong, I care about him, and I wanna see what happens next with this next thing we're having, but the beginning of every relationship is awkward, and weird, and miserable. I don't know what to say, and it's painfully clear Hayden doesn't know what to say, either, given that he hasn't said a word since he picked me up from school.

Well, he did say hello, but besides that, nothing much. He's as much of a sentimental virgin that I am, apparently. It's just the two of us, riding his Dick-mobile, with Creedence Clearwater Revival slowly blowing up the old speakers, in complete silence. And also Okayden is here, wearing a Borsalino hat while reading a Foot Locker catalog. He's just there, minding his business, being a gentle soul.

So, dear reader, what do I do? This jump from friends to special friends is new to me. Do I grab his hand? I kinda wanna grab his hand. But then he will have to let go of my hand to use the stick. Maybe that's out of the question. Do I speak? What do I say? Why is this shit so damn hard? See, this is why I tried to avoid all this shit about love. It makes everything dumb and complicated. Speaking to him was easy until yesterday. Now, I feel like walking on eggshells, wondering who the fuck had all these eggshells to spare to make me suffer. Nobody even gave me some of that giant omelet, for fuck's sake.

I hate this, I hate being here, and I hate to start a relationship. It makes you dumb and complacent. No wonder all the great philosophers have died alone. Being smart and being in love are not compatible. You're either a lonely asshole or a happy dumb, no middle ground. And I'm squarely on the dumb side, moreso because Hayden refuses to tell me his plan on how to get me back to Hill Valley Mountain Woods. Last time I checked, I'm the protagonist of this damn story, for fuck's sake. I'm supposed to have all the agency over here.

But so far, I don't even say a word in edgewise. Or any word, for that matter. There is this wall between Hayden and me. Not quite a brick wall, but, like, a plexiglass wall, one where I can see Hayden, and he can see me, but we can't quite shove our tongue down each other's throat. If we could skip to the part of the relationship where we are old and live on a cheese farm, that would be great. God, I hate starting relationships. The ethical thing would be to do like the panda, refuse to reproduce, eat food that we literally can't process, and just die. Who's gonna miss us? Cats will eat us, dogs will probably eat us, the Earth will heal, end of story. Fucking pandas are based.

Just three buds, being awkward on a war vehicle, cruising towards the unknown. Literally. Where the hell are we? I never knew there was a neighborhood so posh in this backwater hellhole. Makes sense, I suppose, given that every other person seems to be a millionaire or the son of a millionaire. Just put all the shit in one bowl and call it a day, is what I say. Row after row of McMansions, all cream-colored, with horrible French-eclectic mutins that clash with the segmental dormer American windows on the second floor, all adorned with turrets, because of course McMansions need turrets. Everything is an eyesore of fuck-you money, plain and simple, telling you that money can't buy good taste.

What? I like architecture. Sue me.

There is so much masonry vomit I can stomach before I have to turn away. There's a mansion with bay windows with shutters and ionic columns. Good thing I didn't have lunch this time, cuz I definitely wanna puke. The only other thing I can focus on is, well, Hayden. I can't just sit here all day and not say anything, for fuck's sake. I need initiative, panache, and style. It's not very rockstar of me to just zip it and be in silence. I'll just open my mouth and let the rest to chance, just as I've done all my life.

I open my mouth, making sure I have eye contact with Hayden, and open my mouth. Mostly because he's looking at the road, not at me, and that I have dark glasses that are reflecting the sun towards his face and oh god we are going to die. My instincts tell me to say something regardless. And I do, just not to him.

"Hey, nice hat," I say, not to Hayden, whose shaven head almost demands me to slap it, but to Okayden. "Where you get it?"

"Hat store," he whispers, getting nose-deep between the pages as if to block me from seeing it. That's mighty rude, and quite a dick move, to boot.

"What's his deal?" I ask Hayden. Hey, I did it! I said something! How low I have fallen that three words are something to celebrate.

Hayden grips the steering wheel until his knuckles go white, shifting on his seat awkwardly as his mouth flaps up and down awkwardly, as the words he wants to say are dancing on the tip of his tongue like a drunk sorority girl on top of a bar chair. Whatever he wants to say seems to get lost when he shakes his head and a new idea comes barreling down his mouth. Or up his throat. Whichever you prefer. "There's been a lot of changes since you changed schools, brother. Not everyone is over your situation as well as I am."

"Of course," I say. Can't just hope everything goes well just because the power of love and rainbows have entered the story like a bat out of hell. "How's the club?"

Again, Hayden seems to be wanting to say something specific, and yet again, it shoves it back where it belongs. Down his magnificent throat, or mouth. That's your preference, too. "Let's say that things have changed a bit. We lost some privileges, like the clubroom."

"I have to sleep now,

In the vents yet again, shit,

I miss the club room," mumbles Okayden, turning himself into a ball of fabric as he buries himself in his coat.

Consequences to my hubris, my old nemesis! I didn't think about how much I would hurt people other than Hayden. The club was Hayden's dream, it was also Okayden's intervention that made it happen. He's the president, after all. And I shat all over him as well.

"Look," I say, turning around to look in his general direction, even though he's hiding behind a chock full of scarves, a hat, and a magazine, and probably is not paying attention to me, "I'm sorry. I fucked up. I didn't think before doing the stupid shit I did, and although I can't fix it right now, I'll promise right here and then that I will make you whole. While I do it, can I offer you my feet for you to smell? They're extra cheesy today!"

Okayden twitches for a second, like a cockroach getting high on cheap bugspray. "No, thank you, but no,

I have May for that pleasure,

Her feet are like buns."

Ouch, I lost my only bargaining chip. Also, ew. I know age is a number but goddam, Granny May? I guess feet don't get old, I suppose.

Well, I can't kiss everyone in the club to make it all better, so I understand. I mean, I could, but Okayden's breath smells like Doritos and beef. Only Jesus knows where Brayden has put his mouth in. Time to be a man and try to work this the old-fashioned way.

I take $20 from my wallet and flash it toward him. "I'll give you twenty dineros if you forgive me."

He takes a gloved hand and snatches it, shoving it into his many folds. He places a small, crimson pearl in my hand. The pearl is warm to the touch, and I feel like someone whispering weird things in my ear when I hold it.

"The deal has been done

And once done, it cannot be,

Broken. Have a nice day," says Okayden without skipping a beat.

Okay, I think I was cursed. Let's call it even, then.

"We're approaching," says Hayden after clearing his throat. "Get ready."

I turn around, hoping to see more stupid McMansions with bay windows covered by shrubs or some stupid shit like that, but I see none. Nothing. Green, luscious fields of grass as far as I can see. It's as if we were plucked into a Wes Anderson set. Nothing but rolling hills of grass, followed by valleys of green. Too green, if you ask me, all meticulously mowed in a checkered pattern crisscrosses against itself. The road, which had been relatively straight until now, begins to swerve between the hills of green to show what they hide behind them.

Hayden comes to an abrupt stop between two of the hills, killing the engine with a tap of his keys.I never realized how loud the Dick-mobile is until it stops. It's almost serene, really, were it not for the inexplicable laser dot that wants to turn my leather jacket into a polka dot.

Now, dunno if you've even been shot at before, but it isn't a funky fresh time. Can't say I've ever been shot, really, since this story is incredibly Pg-13, but I have been waved at with a gun, which feels equally shitty, I guess. Not gonna stay here and find out I have to get on the ground and roll. Shit, wait, that's for fire. What do I do with guns? Rush them? I'm going to rush them.

I was going to rush them, at least, when I feel my hand get grabbed by what I can only assume is a dry tenderloin of a hand. Soft, it feels like home. Hayden, of course, leisurely rubs the back of my hand with his thumb while looking at me hard, but tranquil. Look at me, using tranquil in a sentence. Fuck this love shit and it's big words.

"Relax, brother," says Hayden. "It's part of the security ring."

"Security ring for what? A wedding? It's a bit much, isn't it?" I say. Or questions. Semantics shmeantics.

"Well, this is not a normal wedding, as I was told," says Hayden. As soon as he finishes speaking, the red dots disappear, giving him a cue to move the Dick-mobile further up the road.

"Is it, like, a theme wedding?" I ask and Hayden moves us past the hills. "I wouldn't put it past Brayden to make his wedding as dramatic as possible just for the clout."

Just as the truck clears the last hill, something new comes to view. Something big, thick, and beautiful. What I can only assume is the love child between a cocaine addict and a Downton Abbey fanboy. The whole facade is made of salmon Hamstone in a long concave shape hugging a brick-layered roundabout driveway with a fountain in the middle. The fountain is of a sea turtle spouting water upwards. It is both art deco and neo-georgian. I can't say if it's a thing of beauty or a chimera in the making, but damn if I don't dig it.

Shame it's overrun by a bunch of Tundras and beefy guys in black suits and glasses. And guns, a lot of guns. The urge to get on the floor and roll is screaming at me from deep inside. But Hayden's hand on my own steel my nerves.

"No, it isn't a themed wedding," whispers Hayden as two beefy dudes, at least twice as big as Jungkook and Harry, come waddling toward us, menacingly. "It's just that Brayden's dad negotiated a temporary release from prison, and, well, things are gonna get a little wild here the next few days."