A little love letter to Midwest emo.

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Sean and Valerie have just crossed the Ohio border, and they are not in love.

They were, once, Sean thinks. He isn’t sure exactly when or for how long.

It could have been when they first met in middle school, when they had not yet chosen the names they use now, and for the first time they had each found someone like them—though, at the time, they did not know what exactly that meant. Or that one summer late in high school, when a night of fooling around ended with Valerie’s realization that she was not a boy like Sean, and they held each other for a long time, the Brave Little Abacus warbling from Valerie’s shoddy but deeply cherished wireless speaker. Or even just under a year earlier, when they were reunited by fate at the pharmacy in their hometown, and Sean thanked the God he occasionally believes in for the chance to know Valerie again. The irritation at his Androgel being withheld for preauthorization (or something) melted away.

Even now, he remembers listening to “Please Don’t Cry, They Stopped Hours Ago” and smiling the whole drive home that day. Objectively, it’s a sad song, with its theme of drowning and angsty, almost choking vocals, but it was one of Their songs, so to speak, and it hurt less to hear it now that he knew whatever it was that was between them wasn’t ruined. Or it hurt in a way that was cathartic, had a kind of healing power. It was hard to explain to himself.

They have talked about going to the American Football house in Urbana, Illinois since high school. It started out as a kind of pipe dream, something to get excited about at random intervals. But now that they’re older and work enough to be able to pay for the various expenses of a road trip from the East Coast to the Midwest, they can finally make their emo kid pilgrimage. And maybe, Sean hopes, however naively, they will somehow again find within one another what it was that drew them together all those times before. They have remained inextricably linked, somehow, even in their periods of distance. Even when things have gone cold, neither of them has ever once been willing to fully let go.

Sean wants to love other people. He knows that it’s terrible.

“God, I hate driving through Pennsylvania,” Valerie says, turning down the stereo a few notches. Sean does not feel like talking. It seems to Sean that Valerie often feels like talking when a song he particularly likes is playing. This time, it’s “Why Did Ever We Meet.” It’s eerily relevant.

Valerie continues, “Then again, Ohio isn’t much better.”

“It’s really not,” Sean agrees, because what else is there to talk about? There is nothing around for miles, no outstanding scenery to comment on. When you’ve spent your whole life in the confines of the New York metropolitan area, driving through the Midwest is unsettling in that way. Even New Jersey has more colorful views. Right now, there aren’t even any Amish people mysteriously along the side of the highway to wonder aloud about like Sean did with his parents when they would drive to Pittsburgh to visit some family friends. How did they get here? Don’t they, like, not use cars or anything? It may have been shallow, ignorant, but it was something to make conversation with where there wasn’t much else to talk about.

They are quiet again. The Ohio sky is characteristically medium-gray. Sean keeps finding himself hoping to watch Route 80 curve around a hillside or something, just to look at something else. Variations in their path became fewer and further between as they went farther west into Pennsylvania. Sean wishes that he was asleep. Valerie insisted upon being behind the wheel for at least the drive there, if not also the drive back, because Sean’s driving makes her carsick, apparently. Sean wishes he had a similar excuse. He is impossibly bored.

Since there is nothing outside to notice, he observes little things about the reality contained in Valerie’s CR-V—the car she has been driving since high school—like the cluster of Little Trees hanging from the rearview mirror, all only faintly scented now, in a mild amalgamation of black ice, vanilla, and new car. Valerie doesn’t smoke anymore, but the smell of cigarettes still lingers, embedded in the fabric over the seats. She keeps her car cleaner than Sean does his, always has; it makes him feel gross. He catches his reflection in the mirror on the passenger side, self-consciously takes note of a cluster of acne along his jaw, suppresses the urge to analyze the degree to which the structure of his face is feminine. Instead, Sean studies Valerie’s profile, trying to pinpoint what about it has changed since they first met. He wonders if she has always had this many freckles, if taking estrogen has somehow changed the texture of her hair. Her black eyeliner is almost perfectly sharp—the edge of its wing blurs just slightly in a space so small that it is barely noticeable. Sean feels like he knows a secret.

Valerie catches Sean looking. He turns back to the window, a little embarrassed.

Valerie glances over at Sean with something like concern, then turns the volume dial up so that it is louder than it was before she had fruitlessly attempted conversation. She hums softly along to “I Was Never Your Boyfriend”—one of Sean’s contributions to the mix they put together for the trip. It catches him off guard.

Sean says, “I thought you didn’t like Tigers Jaw.”

“I didn’t,” Valerie says, “but then I listened to this album again. After I saw you at the pharmacy.”

“And you liked it?”

“Yeah, I did.” She smiles. “Loved it, actually.”

“I thought you would,” Sean says, “you know, when I first told you about it. I was pretty surprised when you didn’t.” He doesn’t say that it made him feel like he didn’t know her like he was supposed to, like he was failing her somehow.

“I can’t even remember why I didn’t like it. Probably some pretentious bullshit reason.”

“These melodies are, like, totally generic,” Sean says in a High School Valerie impression. He hopes it doesn’t sound mean.

To Sean’s relief, Valerie laughs. “Something like that.” But her voice is softer now, and Sean feels like an asshole.

“Sorry.” Heat rises to Sean’s cheeks. There is a bump in the road.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Valerie assures him. “I mean, you’re not wrong.” She gives another laugh. For good measure, Sean thinks. He nods awkwardly, unsure of how to respond, if he should respond at all. He doesn’t want to start another fight. The shouting match at the gas station in Pennsylvania this morning was nearly enough to ruin the trip altogether. He still feels like an idiot for taking as long as he did to figure out how to pump gas—just one of the abundant joys of a life spent in New Jersey.

Sean checks the time on the car’s console. They have only been in Ohio for an hour now. The thought of another two hours of Ohio makes Sean feel a little nauseous. He wonders: is it possible to have cabin fever in a moving car? He closes his eyes. The stereo plays “Exit Does Not Exist.” It sure doesn’t seem to, he thinks.

Halfway through the song, Valerie asks, “Which album is this one on again? The Lonesome Crowded West?”

Sean sighs tiredly. “It’s on the screen, Val.” It’s awful, but a small, bitter part of Sean is happy not to be the one that gets to feel dumb.

“Well, duh, Sean, I’m not fucking blind,” Valerie snaps. “God, I just wanted to talk to you.” Her voice quavers on talk. “About anything.”

Silence fills the space of the car, which feels more claustrophobic with every hour. Sean feels his body, his face getting warmer. This is something that happens to him on testosterone: any negative emotions arise and he feels physically hot, especially in his face. They pass a small cluster of presumably Amish people standing in the uniform expanse of grass to the right of the highway. How did they get here, Sean doesn’t ask.

“I’m sorry for getting nasty with you,” Valerie finally says. “It’s just—I miss the way we used to talk, you know? Why don’t you ever want to talk anymore?”

It’s not like Sean couldn’t see this conversation coming, but the question freezes him nonetheless. “I,” he starts. He pauses tentatively. His face feels even warmer.

“It’s okay, Sean,” Valerie says, “you can tell me. I won’t be mad.” Sean has his doubts.

"Honestly? You’re always making me feel stupid,” he confesses.

A look of genuine shock—not offense—crosses Valerie’s face. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Sean scoffs. Something dead lies in the right lane in front of them. Valerie makes a jagged merge left.

Valerie looks at Sean, wide-eyed. “Sean, I don’t think you’re stupid,” she repeats, something like desperation in the way she says it. She turns down the stereo so low that it’s nearly silent.

“You act like everything should be so fucking obvious,” Sean says. “Like this morning. How was I supposed to be 100% confident to pump gas? We grew up in fucking New Jersey, Val. I had to make sure I was doing it right so we didn’t blow up the tank or whatever.” He goes for a drink from the plastic water bottle they’ve been sharing only to feel a single drop on his dry tongue. “And why couldn’t you just do it yourself, if I was taking so goddamn long?”

“I offered, remember?” Valerie asks rhetorically. “You literally insisted upon doing it yourself.”

Sean is quiet. He hates that she’s right.

“It’s like you think it’s fucking emasculating or something to let me help you with anything,” Valerie continues. “Like, you know I’m the last person to think you’re less of a man for that.”

“That’s not it,” Sean mutters, though she’s not entirely wrong about that. “It’s just like—it’s like all of the stuff I care about is shallow and meaningless to you.” He hates how teenaged he sounds.

“How so?” Valerie asks, not interrogatively, but more like a therapist asking a patient to elaborate on some irrational notion. Sean can’t stand it when she uses that tone. He knows that it’s Valerie’s way of being open to conversation, but it gets under his skin nonetheless.

Sean tries to reciprocate her patience. “Like, whenever we talk about music, you just dominate the whole conversation,” he says. “And you act like it’s just cute that I love the bands I do. You just don’t take me seriously. You don’t listen. You just end up monologuing about each of the waves of emo or something.” The words come out faster than he can think.

Sean waits impatiently for whatever Valerie has to say to him. Her eyes are trained on the road, still unchanging. Sean never thought he would want to be in Indiana. Getting out of Ohio is all he can think about now. The invariability of the landscape is starting to feel suffocating. He briefly imagines himself clawing at the walls of a white padded room.

“I wish you would’ve told me that sooner,” Valerie says softly. She sniffles. “I’m so, so sorry.” She wipes her eye with the heel of her hand, her knuckles white on the other gripping the wheel. Guilt pools in Sean’s chest.

“No,” Sean says, “I’m sorry. I’m just taking my insecurities out on you. Just forget I said anything.” He kicks himself; he should have known he wouldn’t be able to stomach Valerie crying in any capacity. It is his ultimate weakness.

“I want to listen to you talk,” Valerie says. She gently lays a hand on Sean’s thigh. “Really. I just—I love listening to myself talk too much sometimes,” she admits. Sean almost can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“I love listening to you talk,” Sean says, kind of breathless. “I just want to feel like you care about my passions, too, y’know? Like when we were younger.” He feels like a melodramatic middle schooler. It doesn’t help that his voice cracks when he says it. He and Valerie usually laugh when that happens. He almost anticipates it.

Instead, Valerie nods, biting her lip. Her eyes are cast down for a moment, as if she has just been scolded by her favorite teacher, before she apparently remembers that she’s still driving and snaps her head back up to the road. “I’m sorry, Sean,” she says again, more steadily this time but just as sincerely.

“I’m sorry, too,” Sean says. He isn’t sure if he can look at her yet. They both stare straight in front of them for what feels like hours.

The medium-gray sky is fading to black, unlit for the moon hidden beneath a thick blanket of clouds. Valerie puts on her high beams. Sean would usually tell her to turn them off to avoid blinding other drivers, but they have been alone on the highway for a long time now. At the peak of a metal arch over the highway is a lit-up sign that reads WELCOME TO INDIANA. It looks surprisingly new.

“Wow,” Valerie says. “Indiana.”

“Now we’re really in the Midwest.”

Valerie snorts lightly. “Are there even any Midwest emo bands from here? I just realized I can’t think of any.”

“I mean, they probably exist, theoretically,” Sean says. “But not any relevant ones.”

“Speaking of Midwest emo, we haven’t had the music on for like, ever.”

“We should change that.”

“For sure.” Valerie adjusts the volume to an audible level. It’s another one of Sean’s picks: “Heir Apparent.”

Valerie’s brow is furrowed in concentration, as if she’s trying to figure out if she has heard the song before. After a moment, she glances at the screen. “Wait, this is American Football?”

“Um, yes?” Sean says, unable to hide his shock. “Have you not listened to this album?”

“Okay, confession,” Valerie says. “I still only listen to their nineties stuff.”

“Valerie!” Sean gasps, clapping his palm to his chest in mock offense. “You’re a fake fan! And to think we’re on our way to the American Football house itself!”

“I swear I’ve been meaning to!”

“Okay, we’re listening to LP3 right now,” Sean says. He enters Valerie’s passcode into her phone—Sean technically has aux control as the passenger, but Valerie has Spotify Premium—and queues up American Football’s third self-titled LP. “So a lot of people, mostly older fans, don’t really like this one because it’s really different from their early stuff, naturally.”

"How so?” Valerie asks, decidedly less like a therapist this time.

“Well, they kind of go in this washed out, dream pop direction, and it’s not teen angsty like LP1, which was, I think, what made that record so beloved. Like, Mike Kinsella went from literally being a teenager whine-singing about breakups and growing up and shit to a grown-ass man reflecting on all of that. It makes for a much more mature sound, but I guess it just doesn’t hit as close to home for a lot of people. I like it, though.” Sean realizes that he’s rambling. “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Valerie says. She smiles warmly at him. “I forgot how much I liked listening to you talk.”

Sean looks down into his lap, sheepish. “I know you’re more well-versed in music than I am, so I probably sound kind of dumb.”

“You don’t,” Valerie says, “I promise.”

“Thanks.” The bluish light of the dashboard dimly illuminates the contours of Valerie’s face, and Sean can’t help but stare like he’s a teenager in love again.