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I snort out a laugh. “I tried it once. It was fucking sick.”
“You got the wrong kind obviously. I’ll make you a connoisseur yet. Just wait.”
I’m amused that he’s driving us to the other side of town just to get iced coffee from a place he and Willa deemed the best of Park Mountain. I never agreed to get coffee for myself. I’m along for the ride and in desperate need to escape my prison.
It’s technically not a prison, but Dad still refuses to get me and Gemma a car. We’re eighteen and getting ready to start our adult lives. It’s ridiculous at this point. He’s just being spiteful if you ask me.
Someone cuts Tate off and he bitches at them like a little Chihuahua even though the driver isn’t looking at him and certainly can’t hear him.
“Is Jude selling this thing?” I ask as I bump the roof with my fist. “I bet I have enough in savings for this piece of junk.”
“Junk?” Tate scoffs at me. “This Jeep is a classic. She purrs like a kitten too.” Then, to the damn car, he says, “Dempsey didn’t mean it. He’s just hangry.”
Hey, I was promised pastries on this outing…
“I obviously don’t think it’s that big of a junk bucket if I want to buy it,” I say, backtracking. “Seriously, tell your boyfriend I want it.”
Tate rolls to a stop at another red light. He glances over at me, seeing straight through my words and getting to the heart of the matter. His uncanny way of doing that is super annoying. “Nathan still hasn’t mentioned anything more on the car situation? I thought you were going to have a talk with him about it.”
Gritting my teeth, I shake my head. “Every talk with Dad ends with disappointment and anger.”
For the past month since graduation, he’s been putting pressure on me to go to college in the fall. I refuse to do any more school. He then refuses to buy me a car or even co-sign for one. By the end of the conversation, we’re both so pissed we can’t even speak without yelling.
A car honks behind us, signaling the light has changed. Tate gasses it but not before shooting me a concerned look.
“We’re not done discussing this,” Tate says as he pulls into the parking lot of the coffee shop. “But no talky until after coffee.”
I chuckle as we climb out of Jude’s Jeep. Even though Jude can drive and the vehicle belongs to him, Tate always drives them everywhere. It’s weird to see my brother out of the house and without a mask.
The coffee shop—Park Peak Brew—is rustic and has a bear sipping from a mug painted on the front window. It has an unobstructed view of Park Mountain in the distance. Naturally, idiots on their laptops who aren’t even appreciating the beauty of the view took all the window seats.
Inside, the place smells like caramel and coffee, a scent I admit is enticing. Gemma loves her iced coffees, so I think I hate them on principle. Not that I hate my sister, because I don’t, but I do love to be her polar opposite as often as I can.
“I think a caramel macchiato is what I’ll get for you,” Tate tells me as we stand in line behind a small woman in a PMU hoodie that swallows her. “It’s sweet but still has coffee in it. Plus, before you graduate to iced coffee, you need to learn to love the warm, cozy stuff first.”
I’m amused that Tate is making this whole coffee thing a thing. I like that he’s joined our family. I mean, not technically like Willa did on a random Tuesday this past March when my brother Callum dragged her to the courthouse, but it’ll only be a matter of time. Jude’s so fucking obsessed with him. Tate’s a cool dude, though. He’s one of the few good friends I have who aren’t related to me.
Yet.
“They have chocolate milk just in case,” I tease, gesturing to the kids’ section of the menu.
Tate gives me a withering glare that makes me crack up laughing. The PMU girl who’s wearing a hoodie in the June heat turns to look over her shoulder at us in disdain.
“What?” I ask, grinning at her. “No talky before coffee?”
This makes her smirk and she faces front again. Tate gives me the side-eye, playfully nudging me with his elbow. That’s his thing anytime we go out. He tries to point me in the direction of girls who look interested or laugh at my jokes. Problem is, I don’t want any of them.
“Get her number,” he mouths, discreetly pointing at the girl.
I shake my head, choosing to look out the big windows instead. The mountain gleams in the morning sunlight. It’s pretty. Maybe I could come here some time alone, drink my coffee or at least pretend to, and steal one of the window seats to draw on my iPad.
Thoughts of my iPad bring thoughts of Sloane. After all, everything I’ve done digitally so far has been of her. I took her advice and changed the password on my device because if anyone saw just how obsessed I was with drawing her, they’d have me committed. The only reason I haven’t drawn her naked is because it feels like a violation, especially since my illustrations are delving more into realism with my new digital capabilities.
Tate’s chipper voice starts telling the barista our order. I remain standing in place, admiring the view, when a police cruiser pulls into a parking spot next to the Jeep. The same tight feeling I get inside my chest whenever I draw her forms in the hope it might actually be her.
Stupidly, I look for her in every cop car I see.
Always.
