The journey took Misty and me southwest to Natchitoches, along Interstate 20 to U.S. highway routes populated by roadkill and semis. But the scenery mattered not to me. I was just happy to be away from work. Plus, there was the vague hope that Misty, away from her dad's gravitational pull, would lose touch with her virgin self and suggest a spontaneous rendezvous in the Rocket. And if that failed, there was the tangible idea that we'd soon be loaded down with delicious meat pies.

We listened to Amy Grant and Tom Petty. We talked. She got quiet. She had something she wanted to tell me, because she really liked me, she said.

"I had a brother," she said. She told me he was younger than she, older than her sister. He was killed in a boating accident. Neal's flexed forearms and Doll's sad eyes suddenly made sense. I got lost and didn't admit it for an hour. By the time we pulled into Natchitoches, we were sun- and wind-burned, thirsty, tired. We stopped at the 7-Eleven for drinks.

Natchitoches is home to Northwestern State University today, but it bills itself as the oldest permanent settlement in the land that made up the Louisiana Purchase. Located on the banks of Cane River Lake, it was founded as a trading post with the Spanish and Indians in 1714 by French Canadian Louis Juchereau de St. Denis.

Today, the town has a population of 17,000, with more than half taking classes at the university. I remember crooked streets through century-old neighborhoods and downtown.

We pulled up to Lasyone's Meat Pie Kitchen on Second Street, one of many Natchitoches shops that sell pies at $2 a pop.

"Where ya been?" the gray-haired black woman said as we walked in.

"Huh?" I said.

"You're pickin' up the meat pies, right?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"We been waitin' for ya."

"Here we are," said Misty.

"We got turned around," I offered.

"Help me with this," the woman said to me. We picked up a large Styrofoam cooler stocked with pies and loaded it in the back of the Rocket. I tried to give her my dad's credit card. She waved it off.

"Your dad already paid," she said, walking back to the store.

If only the rest of the journey had gone so smoothly. We rolled east in the Rocket as thunderheads formed behind us, cruising on high winds to eventually cover us. I hadn't brought the Rocket's top. Who thinks at 18? The rain started falling somewhere in the middle of nowhere, when the open road offered no shelter. I handed Misty a dirty towel from the back seat.

The Rocket began to misbehave. Apparently the tires were not unlike the slicks found on dragsters, making the Rocket's light frame and powerful engine a model for hydroplaning. I ignored the first couple of slides to the side of the road, ignored the 10-foot drop to a water- and mud-filled gully. In fact, I gassed the Rocket's V-8, using the logic that speed was my only weapon for escaping the rain.

The Rocket started sliding again and didn't stop. We left the road, bouncing out of control toward the ditch. I still have a picture in my mind of that moment, like a Polaroid, smeared at the edges and far away: Neal's baby, her 90-pound frame in midair, hovering over the Rocket's passenger seat, over the gully, like a doll, held only by the loose seat belt strap reaching over her skinny, pink thighs. I reached for her, grabbed her in an awkward place, lost her, saw the gully move closer, prayed with Misty, bounced more, lurched to a stop.

A semi roared past. Misty was still with us. So were the pies. Cars sprayed us. I heard my heart and thought it was the engine; I tried to drive but went nowhere. So much for reinvention: I was still an idiot. I started the Rocket and slowly pulled out. We were soaked. We didn't say a word.

It was dark when we got back to Monroe. I pulled up to Misty's house and she gave me a peck and got out. We didn't talk for two days. When I called, she seemed distracted, and said I seemed distracted. Regardless, my time in Monroe was running out, so we made the effort to meet on the couch a few more times. But it never happened.

I have no doubt the relationship would have failed had I stuck around. But this was the first time I had left before getting through that initial phase of getting to know a person. The relationship was left in eternal limbo.

Before heading to the airport, Dad and I stopped by Neal and Doll's house. I have no recollection of the goodbye scene with Misty -- just the firm handshake from Neal and the awkward farewell with her mom as she surprised me with tears and a hug, then gave me an 8-by-10 high school photo of Misty that I had no idea what I was supposed to do with.

"Come back and see us soon," she said.

"I will," I said. "Definitely."

Of course, I didn't. Dad took me to my plane. My luggage included a small cooler of meat pies. I ate all of them within a week. Misty and I wrote to each other a couple of times. I went back to school. And I learned how to type.

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