My first love was a 2003 Subaru Outback. We first met at the car dealership that’s notorious for ripping people off, where I was blinded by newly gained teenage independence. Excited by my accomplishment of saving up three summers worth of paychecks, I was easily seduced by the Subaru's dependable reputation. I was in awe at the fact that my dad wasn’t entirely disapproving. “It’s actually a good deal, it’s in really good condition,” he confirmed as he haphazardly examined the vehicle in the infamous over-protective dad fashion. 

The  Outback took this invasion of privacy like a champ, standing there in all its glory--red  gleaming paint, well-groomed interior with wooden accents, it hardly looked like a used car.  I was proud to drive it to school; there in the junior parking lot, I sandwiched my pride and joy between two of my friends’ cars lovingly named Black Beauty and Benjamin. Then came the question I was waiting for: “what are you going to name it?” I stood there analyzing the Subaru’s qualities: trustworthy, reliable, yet slightly musty. “Hank,” I answered, confident in the fact that the name suited my newest prized possession quite well.

Before Hank even came into my life, there was my boyfriend, Anthony.  Our shy yet flirtatious friendship soon grew into a relationship after being set up on a double date. His humor is what first drew me in. Whether it was spontaneously breaking into a goofy dance or saying some absurd joke, spending time with him was anything but boring. Everything he did would make me laugh, like when he became  his nine-year-old brother’s basketball coach. He didn’t know anything about basketball. I would watch from the bleachers as he attempted to communicate game strategies to a confused herd of fourth graders. Every once in a while, the permanent deer-in-headlight expression on his face would morph into a smile as his eyes met mine from across the court; as if to say “I have no idea what i’m doing.” After the game, we would dodge aggravated parents on our way back to my car. Hank’s leather interior provided a safety shield from little Jason’s angry father. Anthony would drive us  home during a non-stop fit of giggles. 

Unlike Hank, however, Anthony did not receive my father’s stamp of approval. Whether it was the fear of his daughter being in a relationship or the fact that Anthony decided it would be a good idea to take two tabs of acid before having Easter dinner at my Nana’s house, I am not entirely sure where his disdain spawned from. All I know is that looking back at how Anthony treated me, my father’s apprehension was valid.

It started when I let him drive my car. Being an anxious driver, I hated the fact that I was the only one with a car in the relationship. The truck that Anthony took so much pride in met its slow death after being wrapped around a telephone pole on the side of Route 53 prior to our relationship. He missed driving; he loved it, and I despised it. As self-conscious as I was about my newly developing skill-- too many “ Jesus Christs” or grabs of the “oh shit” handle after particularly harsh turns, resulted in my belief that I wasn’t fit for the task. So, there I sat, buckled in the passenger seat, as my high school crush navigated my three summer’s worth of work through the ins and outs of Massachusetts highways.

It seemed like a win-win situation, he loved driving my car and I no longer had to face my fear. That was until he began to treat the car like it was his own. Out of nowhere, the stereo suddenly no longer reached his desired volume, so he decided to take it into his own hands. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask out of fear as the stereo fell into his lap, playing music was the only thing that kept me sane during the few times I had to drive by myself.

“It’s not loud enough, I can fix it, hold on,” he said. There was nothing wrong with the stereo nor the volume. In fact, I’m pretty sure I have developed tinnitus from Anthony blasting shitty hair metal through Hank’s abused speakers.

 Then came the windows. Despite Hank being in near perfect condition, there was a hole on the roof of the driver’s side near the seatbelt that would cause the seat to become soaked when it rained. It was the only reason I could think of as to why anyone would sell such a near-perfect vehicle. But there was nothing wrong with the windows, the leak wasn’t coming from the windows. I tried to explain this to Anthony but it was too late, he already began hitting the driver’s side window with such force that it became unaligned with the rubber track. Now the window wouldn’t close, and the leak became obsolete in comparison to a half-open window.

The worst one was the left headlight. There was nothing wrong with the headlight, just like how there was nothing wrong with the radio or the windows. That was until Anthony pulled into a parking space too fast and hit a snowbank. There was nothing wrong with the headlight, but now it was smashed into itself and a large black mark left underneath it on the bumper. “Get out, we are switching,” I said with tears in my eyes as I slammed Hank’s poor passenger side door and got out of the car. 

What hurt most wasn’t the inevitable autoshop bill I would have to pay, but the fact that for a moment, I would believe him. Maybe the radio really wasn’t loud enough. Maybe the window really was the problem and not the leak on the driver’s side door. Maybe there was something wrong that everyone else could see except for me. But the headlight snapped me into shape; I knew that there was nothing wrong with the headlight until Anthony destroyed it. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, are you seriously that mad? it’s still drivable.” I remained silent during Anthony’s pleas and apologies until he said, “At least you still have a car, I don’t even have one.” It was then that I realized I don’t even own my car anymore.

Less than a month before I moved into college, Anthony got his truck back. We hadn’t made it to three dates in his truck before he admitted, “I don’t see myself visiting you in Boston, that’s just too much, I can’t do this anymore.” There were two weeks left before I had to move into college, and he had just decided now that the thirty-minute commute was just too much; after nine months of dating--it didn’t make sense to me. But what did make sense to me was the fact that I no longer had anything to offer him. “I can take the long way home,” he offered, as I sat there crying in the passenger seat.

There are still times when I get in my car after a particularly hot day and the smell of sun-warmed leather takes me right back to one of those many arguments.  Sometimes after a long day at work and poor Hank’s window begins to stick and becomes unaligned on the track--I can’t help but sit there and curse Anthony out in my head before driving home. Even when I walk into a gas station and notice the black mark under the front headlight, I am momentarily filled with a fleeting white rage. But now, despite all of these imperfections, I am the one in the driver’s seat.

 -Taylor Fruzzetti

Taylor Fruzzetti is a current junior at Emmanuel College in Boston, MA. She is a double major in writing, editing, publishing, and communication studies. Taylor loves experimenting with different writing styles and is striving to pursue a career in journalism. You can find her previously published articles on BuzzAround.com and Emmanuel College’s The Hub. In her free time, you can find her walking her greyhound, hiking, and of course, writing.