I point at Ben’s SUV, desperate. “Listen, my brother’s in that car and he’s about to propose to the wrong girl. She hates cats, doesn’t recycle, and drives a Hummer.” I shove the money forward. “Please. I have to stop him.”
“This is ridiculous,” the man groans. “Get another Uber.”
“Hold on, honey,” Debbie says.
Yes.I brace myself against the seat, expecting a fast and furious chase. Instead, Debbie flips on her blinker andeasesout of the parking lot at roughly the speed of a tortoise on Benadryl.
What is happening?My heart’s racing faster than Debbie’s Prius. Heck, Jerry Garcia’s probably rotting faster in his grave.
The guy next to me snorts and crosses his arms, settling in for what is clearly not his best night. That makes two of us.
“Um, Debbie.” I lean forward. The light’s green and we’re three cars back. “Can you catch up?”
“I’ve got you,” Debbie promises and hums along to the radio as shecasuallyaccelerates.
Ben’s SUV is already pulling ahead, changing lanes.
“Can you drive any faster?” I plead.
“Of course,” she beams. “But these electric cars only get good mileage if I stay just under the speed limit.”
My foot is practically pressing through the floor mat, as if sheer willpower could make this Prius fly. “Debbie,” I beg, “I’ll give you another hundred dollars if you catch up to that SUV.”
There goes my grocery money for the week. I’m going to be living off ramen and a prayer—but Ihaveto know what Ben is doing here. Why he lied.
“Please, Debbie,” I add, desperate. “Can you goanyfaster?”
Her eyes flash at me in the rearview mirror and she gives me a sympathetic nod. “I can try.”
The guy beside me is tapping away on his phone. “Maybe you should’ve Uber-hopped into a Corvette.”
“Maybe you should’ve asked your mommy to pick you up.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he huffs. “Mom never missesThe Late Show.”
How is this my life?
I scoot forward, gripping the front passenger seat as Debbie’s Prius picks up a whole seven miles per hour. Ahead, Ben’s SUV is at a yellow light. This is our chance to catch him—but at the last second, Ben veers right.
“Right lane, Debbie! Right lane!” I yelp.
Debbie flinches, and I instantly feel guilty, but we can’t lose him. She inches toward the turn, painfully slow, and I’m clenching my jaw so hard I’m one stress fracture away from a dental bill Idefinitelycan’t afford.
By the time we round the corner, Ben’s car is gone.
“Where to next, honey?” Debbie asks, doing a little dance of excitement in her seat. “I feel like one of them NASCAR fellas.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her she’d be lapped by a riding lawn mower. “Looks like he’s up at that Starbucks,” I say instead. “You can drop me off there.”
Debbie beams, pulling into the parking lot. “Save him from himself, dear.”
Save him?The only thing Ben needs saving from is his own juvenile antics—and I didn’t sign up for that circus. “Yes, ma’am.”
The guy in the back seat leans forward. “This isn’t going to affect my Uber rating, is it?”
I roll my eyes and climb out of the Prius. Debbie gives a proud little rev of the engine before zooming away at the breakneck speed of five miles per hour.
Making my way to the outdoor seating, I sag onto a chair, the adrenaline crashing hard. This night has gone from bad to worse. I failed to record the meeting. I have nothing but names. And I’m stuck eating ramen for a week. Which I can live with—I’m not afraid of the sodium. But Bennett Bradley popping back into my life? That was a whole other level of heartburn I wanted to avoid.
