Page 6 of Rising Heat

Dad

Drive safe.

Bex

Did you make it or did you join a cult?

Bex

No wait, become a truckstop stripper?

Bex

BET IT ALL AT A SKETCHY ROADSIDE CASINO???

The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. Apparently, Bex remains Bex. And my sense of humor survived, which feels promising. I answer her first.

Darcy

Alive. No cults. No financial ruin.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

Bex

Okay but your failure to deny “truck stop stripper” feels telling.

I roll onto my stomach, cheek pressed to the cool side of the pillow.

Darcy

Please. If I were going to have a public spiral, I’d at least make it chic.

Bex

Obviously. You’d find a way to make a breakdown look editorial. There’d be a whole aesthetic. I’m a little jealous, honestly.

Darcy

Exactly.

Bex

So no weird roadside awakening? No diner waitress named Jo changing your life? No suspiciously attractive stranger helping with your bags?

There it is. My best friend’s particular gift for making the absurd sound weirdly plausible.

Darcy

Unfortunately, no. Just me, three lanes of rage traffic, and one deeply inappropriate trucker.

Bex

Honestly? Still kind of iconic.

I set the phone down before I can think too hard about why that conversation made me feel better.

The room is aggressively average—tan carpet, one sad armchair by the window, a desk chair upholstered in that vaguely scratchy navy fabric every chain hotel buys in bulk, the faint smell of industrial detergent and stale heat. It’s perfect.