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“So it’s settled then.” His lips curve into a dazzling grin as he lifts his gaze to mine. “Finish eating and we’ll go get your stuff from Mack’s. It’s a long way to New York from here.”
13
Moonage Daydream
Dash eyes me over his shoulder while stuffing at least one of everything from the hotel vending machine into his duffel bag. “Ready?”
I gape down at the assorted candy bars, bags of chips, and small packages of cream-filled cookies peeking out from inside, and snicker at his impressive snack haul. “Planning for the apocalypse?”
“Very funny. No hot Cheetos for you.” He zips his bag, hauls it over his shoulder, and turns toward the closest exit.
Before I can formulate a witty reply, my phone rings. Without even looking, I know it’s Damian . . . again. He’s been blowing up my phone every hour on the hour since I ended things.
Dash stops in his tracks. “You need to get that?”
“Nope.” I ignore the call, switch the phone to silent, and shove it deep into my pocket.
Damian can wait—until hell freezes over as far as I’m concerned. As much as I’d love to tell my ex exactly how relieved I am to be rid of him, that’s a conversation I’d rather not have in front of Dash. He already has more than enough evidence of how messed up my life is.
Dash raises an eyebrow and locks his probing gaze on me, digging for answers I’m not prepared to give. “You sure?”
“Positive.” Hiking my tote up my shoulder, I march to the exit and open the door. “You coming?”
Before hitting the highway, we swing by Mack’s so I can reclaim my backpack and grab my pillow from the Betty. And for the first time in days, I change into a clean pair of denim shorts, and the faded pink Fight Like a Girl cancer survivor T-shirt Mom wore until she’d basically accepted defeat. Then we hit the road.
On the long stretch of highway between Hicksville and Nashville, we pass a bright-yellow Volkswagen Beetle, and I punch Dash in the shoulder. “Punch buggy!”
“What the hell?” He gapes at me, shielding his arm from another attack. “What did I do?”
I burst out laughing at his horrified expression. “You’ve never played punch buggy?”
“No.” He rubs his shoulder. “But it seems a bit . . . violent.”
“Sorry.” I swallow a giggle. “What road-trip games did you play when you were a kid?”
“My parents didn’t really do the road trip thing. But if we had, I would’ve read a book.” He eyes me as if he’s afraid I might attack again. “Like a civilized person.”
I roll my eyes. “Boring.”
“Educational,” he insists with another sideways glare.
“Extra boring.” I laugh, but my heart aches for the little dark-haired boy I imagine sitting in the back of a fancy limo, a brand-new copy of On the Road in his lap, and a stern nanny by his side. “No license plate game? No I spy? No twenty questions?”
“No.” His gaze darts my way. “But I’m up for a round of twenty questions if you’re game.”
“Only if you let me go first.” I bounce in my seat, unable to hide my excitement.
He nods but keeps his eyes on the road.
I grin, thinking of his curious habit of scribbling secrets on napkins. “What are you always writing—”
“Pass.” He tightens his grip on the wheel. “Pick something else.”
Stunned by his lightning-quick refusal, I revisit the question he’d dodged at the diner. “Fine. What color crayon would you be?”
He snorts out a laugh. “What is it with you and crayons?”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Supposedly, the color you choose directly correlates to the sort of person you are.”
