“Says who?”
“The Highway Code. I looked it up.”
Sweet Hell. “There’s no such thing as a Highway Code, Luce. You’re making that up.”
That look of shock and indignation returns. “I wouldn’t joke about safety.” She takes a deep breath, as though steeling herself for another stint in the car with me. “Given the disparity in our heights, we should each remember to leave the seat and steering wheel in neutral positions. That way, we both have to adjust them equally. That’s fair.”
No, that’s weird,I think.But I say, “Sure, Luce.” I’ll say anything to get us moving since we’re still in PA. I get comfy, stretching my legs out and propping my feet on the dash. Two more hours and we’ll be at the hotel. I might even catch the end of the Capital’s game, if I’m lucky. I’d watch it on my phone now, but I’m one hundred percent sure that violates some rule.
“And take your feet off the dash.”
“What? Why? It’s my dash. And they’re my feet.”
“Because feet don’t go on the dash.”
“Uh, yeah they do. My legs are as long as you are, Lucy. How else am I supposed to stretch out?”
“You’ll just have to wait.”
“I don’t want to wait. I want to stretch. I just drove five hours, which I now know to be highly risky, according to the Highway Code, whatever the hell that is. I’m sure they’d agree I’ve earned a little chill time.”
“Chill all you want, I’m driving.”
“You’re not, though. We’re still sitting at the gas pump.”
“I will be driving. As soon as you take your feet off the dash.”
“Again, I’ll remind you that they’re my feet and it’s my dash. It’s also my car driving your ass all the way to freaking Wisconsin.”
“And I appreciate that. Really, I do.” she says. “But that’s no reason to laugh in the face of propriety.”
“Laugh in the? What the hell, Lucy? They’re just feet. My socks are even clean. And the dash is just a piece of plastic.”
“But it’s not a footrest! It’s a dashboard. Your feet should be on the floor. Hence, the word floorboard.”
“You are talking crazy.”
“No, I’m following rules that society and car manufacturers have carefully laid out for us. What if we’re on the highway, Whit, and people pull up beside us and see you with your legs all stretched out and your giant feet pressed against the windshield? What will they think?”
“What will they think?” I repeat. “Maybe the better question, Luce, is why do you care what they think?”
* * *
Lucy
Hot water sprays from the showerhead, hitting my shoulders and soothing the tension there. I won’t lie and say I’m not considering turning around so the showerheadcould help release the tension between my legs, but Whit’s on the other side of the bathroom door, sprawled out across my bed watching hockey or football or something. He said the TV in his room wasn't working, so he helped himself to mine.
Truthfully, it wouldn’t matter if he were still across the hall. Or across the state. These days, Whit’s on my mind constantly, and after spending last night with him? Well, my body’s wondering what the hell I’m doing in the shower if he’s on the bed.
But my mind knows better. Resisting his considerable charm isn’t easy, but I made a valiant effort today. All I have to do is get through the evening and the rest of the drive tomorrow. Surely I can do that without melting like a puddle of goo in his presence and asking him for a repeat of last night. I must resist. It helps just a little that he drives me crazy—feet on the dash, crumbs everywhere. His road trip etiquette could use some work. But he always uses his turn signal, so he does get points for that.
As the water starts to cool down, I turn the knob and step out of the shower. I wrap a hotel towel around me, though it barely covers my ass. And that’s when I realize my mistake—my clean clothes are still in my bag. Dammit. Whit sauntered into my room just as I was getting ready to shower, and it’s no exaggeration to say he throws me off my game.
I stare down at the pile of clothes I just stepped out of. Ugh. I can’t do it. I can’t put dirty clothes on my clean body. And they’re not just dirty—they're road trip dirty, which feels like it comes with an extra layer of yuck. I’m a little persnickety—I know. But I like things the way I like them. And the way I like them is clean. I change my sheets every Saturday morning without fail. I use a bath towel twice, but I rotate the days. Maybe it’s a little intense, but I’m not compromising my standards now.
“Whit?” I call.
“‘Sup, Luce? Need me to wash your back?”
