Page 7 of Truth or More Truth
“Because it’ll annoy you.”
“You’re right about that,” he mutters.
I back out of the parking space. “Can you just be nice to me for once?”
Bobby’s mouth drops open. “I’m always nice to you.”
“Tell me one time you’ve been nice to me,” I demand.
When he doesn’t answer within three seconds, I say, “Exactly. Now tell me where to go, Bobby Joe, and be quick about it.”
If I don’t murder this man by the time we get out of the Chicago metro area, I’ll deserve a medal. We’re only thirty minutes in, and my hands are itching to clamp around his neck. I promise I’m not a murderer, just an overly annoyed woman.
“Stop with the commentary on my driving skills,” I say through clenched teeth, “and tell me what lane I should be in.”
“The right lane.”
“The right lane? Bobby Joe, if you’re messing with me, I’ll pull this car over and make you walk to Arkansas. Fifteen seconds ago you were deciding whether I should be in the left or middle lane.”
“That’s before I looked at your gas gauge.”
I glance down at the gauge and groan. How long has the “low gas” light been on? I flip on my blinker and ease into the right lane so I can take the next exit. A quick glance ahead informs me there’s a gas station just off the interstate.
When I pull up to the pump at the self-service station, I wonder if Bobby will be a gentleman and offer to pump the gas for me.
“I need to make a phone call,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “You need anything from inside? Drink? Snacks?”
“Yeah, but I’m picky about my road-trip snacks, and I don’t trust you to not mess up my order. I’ll get them when I go in to pay.”
“I’m paying for the gas,” he declares.
“No, you’re not.”
“It’s your car we’re putting a thousand-plus miles on. It’s only fair that I pay for the gas.”
What he says makes sense, so I agree, even though I’m annoyed about it for no good reason.
I pump the gas and then grab my purse to go inside and pick out my snacks. When I pass Bobby on the payphone outside the door, I overhear him saying, “Baby, I’m sorry I haven’t been there, but I’ll see you when I get home in a few days.” I wonder if he’s talking to the same woman he secretly called at Wendy and Randall’s wedding. Knowing him, probably not.
A few minutes later, I can feel Bobby watching over my shoulder as I pay for my snacks and he waits to pay for the gas. I silently dare him to comment on my array of candy, chips, pre-packaged baked goods, and drinks. When he doesn’t, I feel an odd sense of loss. Instead of waiting for him to pay, I return to the car, dig my Whitney HoustonWhitneycassette out of the glovebox, and pop it into the tape player, because I’m one thousand percent sure Bobby is not a Whitney fan. Then I start munching my way through a bag of Cheetos.
“Cheetos?” he says as he slides into his seat. “That seems like the absolute worst choice of snack for the car.”
I roll my eyes. He sounds like a dad.
“Why is that, Bobby Joe?” I ask, as I purposely swipe orange dust onto the radio knobs, ensuring he won’t be changing the volume anytime soon. “They’re delicious.”
“That is disgusting.”
I lick my fingers before shifting the car into drive. “My car, my rules.”
Why am I acting like a child? I never act like this. The man brings out the worst in me. Considering our ten-year age difference, you’d think I’d try to act more mature around him, not less.
“You have rules about Cheetos?” he asks.
I glance over and catch the grin he’s trying to hide.
“I do.” I give him a haughty look. “I can eat them anytime, anywhere, anyhow.”
