“I’ve got it. I’ll drive, and you can rest.”
She throws up her hands in frustration. “I lived in this town. I know my way around here better than you do.”
“Then you can be my shotgun navigator,” I say cheerfully. I don’t want to further embarrass her by pointing out that she’s in no condition to be behind the wheel right now.
“Don’t patronize me, Collin.”
She’s taking my good intentions all wrong, but if I have to deal with her thinking I’m a jerk, then so be it. This is what’s best for her.
“I’m not.”
“Well, let’s be clear that in our relationship”—she makes air quotes around the word—“you don’t get to make all the decisions and always be the one in the driver’s seat because you’re the man.”
“Fine by me.”
“Then prove it. Let me drive.”
“No. And since we’re talking about ourrelationship”—I emphasize the word—“then you should know that I’m the kind of guy who takes care of his girlfriend. Fake or otherwise. And right now, I’m trying to take care of you. Not because I think I’m a better driver or for some chauvinistic, outdated reason that a man should be the one behind the wheel, but because I know you’re not feeling the greatest. We’ve got a thirty-minute drive to the beach house. You can rest and relax and regroup. Whether you want to believe it or not, this is me trying tohelpyou.”
Noli gives me a hard look, like she’s trying to make out my motives.
I click the key fob, and our rental car locks chirp.
She chucks her bag into the backseat and wrenches open the door on the passenger side of the car.
I slide into the driver’s side. “Are you going to help me navigate now, or are you going to be stubborn?”
She crosses her arms and stares out the window. “It’s all you, hotshot.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
I plug in the address of the Airbnb Mack and Poppy have rented for the wedding party. It’s a thirty-five-minute drive, but it looks pretty straightforward.
“Here we go,” I say, reversing out of the parking spot. “Do you want to try to sleep?”
Noli just grunts.
“I only ask because if not, I’m going to turn on some music.”
She grunts again.
Okay, then.
I stop at the exit of the parking garage and quickly tap open my music app, pulling up my playlist of show tunes.
Immediately, a song fromFunny Girlfills the car.
Noli whips her head toward me. “Seriously?”
“No need to rain on my parade,baby.”
She shakes her head, but she’s fighting a smile.
Good. That was my entire goal. I mean, I do love a good Broadway tune, but I also knew that if I did something ridiculous, Noli wouldn’t have any choice but to engage. She can’t seem to help herself, and I appreciate that about her. Because when Noli challenges me and her eyes get all stormy blue, it does something tangible to my body. It’s like I can feel my neurons humming, pressing against my skin and snapping to attention. Talking with Noli—teasing her, challenging her, and having her do the same right back—makes me feel alive.
I start singing. Loudly.
