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“You have no idea what I’m picturing right now,” I say when we’re finally over it and on our way.
“Whatever you’re picturing, this guy was worse,” she says. “Oh, hey! It’s my song!” She turns up the radio and Electric Freakshow’s latest blasts throughout the car. We both sing along at the top of our lungs, but when it gets to the part I don’t know, I take a deep cathartic breath and let it out.
“Thanks for this,” I say, looking at her. She’s in a tight pink sweat suit, and her wild hair looks more model than matted. She glances at me, then back at the road.
“You’re welcome,” she says, navigating onto the highway. “Now grab my phone and check his text from this morning. I need you to read me the address.”
I co-pilot us to a neighborhood across town using the Internet GPS that never quite catches up to where we are. “It’s 2026,” I say as she begins slowly inching down the street.
“Evens are on the left,” Simone murmurs as she continues to creep forward. “That’s 2020,” she says, pointing to a yellow house with black shutters and accelerating a bit more. “2022 . . .” We pass a brick house with trim that needs a paint job. Then she pulls over on the opposite side of the street. “There it is.”
I grin at her. “Good luck.”
Simone sighs, then turns to grab a boy’s sweatshirt wadded up on the backseat. I reach to switch between radio stations.
“I’ll be thirty seconds and then it’s hot choc-o-latte time,”she says before shutting the door and jogging across the street.
In the emptiness of the car, the new station whispers out Electric Freakshow’s song again. It’s barely loud enough to hear:
“. . . are all just magnets for fate; stumbling, skipping, running at our pace . . .”
I whisper along, looking over as Simone takes the front porch steps. She rings the bell, looking back once to give me a thumbs-up, and then talks briefly to a cute guy who doesn’t look at all like a dog kisser to me. I guess that’s why you really can’t judge a book by its cover. She hands over his sweatshirt and gives him an awkward hug. As she jogs back to the car, he watches her go.
“Sammy’s?” she asks as she gets behind the wheel.
“Where else?” I ask, my mouth watering again thinking about Sammy’s famous salted caramel hot chocolate with a shot of espresso. “I need a scone, too. I haven’t eaten anything since . . .” My words fade as I think of the last meal I ate. I need a distraction.
“You didn’t tell me about Joel,” I say quickly. “At the party?”
“Oh, right!” she says, smacking her leg. “He asked about you.”
“Liar!”
“Truth,” she says. We’re still parked, and I’m sure Ed is wondering why we haven’t left yet. Simone goes on. “So Joel was all, ‘Where’s your sidekick?’ and I was all, ‘Dealing with family drama,’ and he was all, ‘Bummer.’ And then some girl barfed on the dance floor, which cleared the party faster than a raid.”
“I can’t believe it,” I say, shaking my head.
“Believe it, sister,” Simone says, checking her reflection in the rearview. “Your little lover boy might just have eyes for you, too.”
I don’t say anything else; I just take it all in. Simone shifts gears, and over her shoulder, the hookup house catches my eye. There’s a different boy leaving, and from this vantage point he looks even cuter than the first. Blond hair, blue-eyed college random. I nearly smile at him, but Simone peels out like she’s driving the getaway car at a bank heist and I almost topple into the backseat.
“Mony!” I yell as I straighten up. She apologizes, and I look back at the house once again. I see the guy stop on the sidewalk, shield his eyes from the sun, and watch after us. There’s a flit in my chest that feels like missing something. Then as quickly as he’s there—the staring, stirring boy— Simone takes a turn and he’s gone.
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