Page 49
“That’s . . .” Dash frowns and faces the road, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten. “I’m sorry.”
I blink a few times and force a smile. “What about your family? Are your parents still—”
“Together?” He laughs. “No. Dad’s on wife number three. Mom never remarried. Once was more than enough for her. Plus, she’d lose that alimony if she did.”
“Your dad must have a good job.” I choke on an awkward laugh. “Sorry. That was kinda rude, but you said the car was a graduation gift—I assume from your dad.”
He nods.
“A Model X isn’t something you buy on a schoolteacher’s salary.”
He releases a slow breath. “He works in Washington.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’s a . . . writer.” He doesn’t seem sure of his word selection, but his eyes light up nevertheless. “That’s what I’d like to do. My dad has other plans for me.”
A chuckle escapes me. “Why don’t you tell him no? You’re an adult, he shouldn’t really get a choice in the matter.”
“It’s complicated.” He fiddles with the GPS. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”
And just like that, the conversation grinds to a halt as we search for the closest place to eat.
“How can you hate ‘China Girl’?” Dash pulls his eyes off the road to gape at me. “It’s one of Bowie’s greatest hits.”
“You mean, besides the borderline racist undertones?”
He shakes his head and turns back to the deserted road. For close to fifty miles, it’s been nothing but pastures and trees out every window.
“I don’t think you can take anything he did at face value. I’ve read articles that said the song was a metaphor for exploitation, others claimed it was an allegory about drugs.” He grows more animated as he lays out his argument. “I don’t know what his true intentions were, but I do know Bowie spoke out against racism his whole career.”
Ignoring his theories, I arch an eyebrow and glare at his profile. “That doesn’t change the fact that I had to listen to it for more than four hours straight when it jammed in the 8-track.”
Dash grins and breaks into a bad rendition of the chorus.
“Noooo . . .” I press my hands over my ears, trying not to laugh. “You can just shut your mouth. If I never hear that song again, it’ll be too soon.”
“Aw, come on, Zoey.” He nudges my arm, giving me puppy dog eyes. “It’s a classic.”
A prickle of heat settles low in my stomach, and I look away, pretending his beautiful face didn’t strike the match. “I heard even he didn’t like playing it. There had to be a reason for that.”
Dash snickers. “Maybe it got jammed in his 8-track.”
My gaze snaps to the alert flashing across the car display.
Stay below 55 mph to reach your destination.
I straighten in my seat and point at the screen. “What does that mean?”
He blinks, as if trying to decide how to respond. “Battery’s getting a little low. But we should be fine.”
The red, glowing battery icon calls him a big fat liar.
“Five percent? You call that fine?” I take a deep breath and stare into the dense thicket lining the road on both sides. “How far are we from the next charging station?”
“Maybe twenty miles to the supercharger in Cookeville. But don’t worry.” He flashes a reassuring smile. “I’ve cut it closer than this.”
As we crest the top of the hill, Dash’s smile slips, and he curses under his breath.
