“Alright, I’m in. Friend zone it is.”
He snorts and lifts his hips to adjust his jeans before settling back in his seat. Blythe’s voice increases in volume as she debates over the phone with someone about a makeshift altar. I’m glad for it, because I suspect she’d be giving me hell about our exchange as soon as Tripp isn’t within earshot. All in good fun, of course.
Still, I don’t want any rifts among us. Tripp was on to something when he said I’m locked into the friend group. I like that idea and want to lean into it instead of putting it on the chopping block. Their whole group gives me a warm feeling—one I want to hold onto. With as many let downs as I’ve experienced lately, I want this one good thing to stick.
“This is good, actually,” I say with a sigh.
“Yeah?”
I nod. “I’m in over my head with work on the app while trying to walk the straight and narrow with guys right now, anyway. I’m glad you brought it up.”
“App?”
“Long story.”
“Long drive,” he counters, crossing his arms again and lifting his eyebrows like he’s all ears.
“Okay,” I snicker. “I’ll fill you in. But you have to start giving me some insight on your side of things, too. It only seems fair. If we’re going to be friends, we both get to bitch about our jobs. Or juicier stuff—like you being an insatiable menace with a little black book the size of an encyclopedia. You’re basically a tourist attraction, from what I hear.”
“Are you slut shaming me?”
I smirk. “Respectfully.”
“Hey, I bring thrill and entertainment to this town. I’m a walking public service.”
“Ah, yes. A nonprofit disaster.”
“If I were so bad, I’d have already dumped these two chatty nitwits at the nearest hair salon and booked us an hourly hotel room. I’m being good. Pretty damn noble of me, honestly.”
“Truly.”
I fiddle with the volume knob just to keep my hands busy. Tripp’s tone is far from offended by my stabbing jokes. Good. Because if we’re going to berealfriends, I will continue roasting the shit out of him and expect nothing less in return.
“Hit the next gas station. I need a slushie,” he suggests while flicking the black ice air freshener hanging above the radio. He turns his hat backward. “This ain’t doing much, by the way. Your car still smells like pot. Best hack is coffee grounds.”
His eyes narrow mischievously, and my ridiculously broad smile must look cartoonish. I laugh through my nose while picturing Tripp and I hotboxing ole Rusty Rose like a couple of teenagers with nowhere else to get high but a car. The lingering smell is actually from my nana, to be completely honest. She doesn’t fuck around when it comes to her medical-grade ganja.
“I’ll get right on that, buddy.”
“Buddy,” he repeats. “See? Feels right.”
Does it? For the life of me, I can’t decide if I agree or not. The energy feels formal and new. At the same time, it’s pleasant and exciting.
A friendly bond with someonethathandsome is no big deal. This sort of thing happens all the time for people with a good head on their shoulders. I’m assuming.
The idea of it makes me damn proud of myself. There’s no telling the pity party I’d have thrown if a brand-new crush had suggested a strictly non-romantic relationship in the past.
Based on the way his eyebrows are lifted right along with the curve of his mouth, I think Tripp and I are off to a good start. The pressure is off. We can just be who we are.
I slow our speed enough to get out of the passing lane.
Savannah lets out an excessive yawn and wiggles her way to the front so that her forearms rest on the center console. “What are y’all talking about up here?”
She squeals as Tripp palms the top of her head and gently pushes her back. “Put your seatbelt on.”
10
MESA
