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I call the closest rental car place to me and strike out. The next two basically laugh at me for trying to get a last-minute car on a Friday.
I’m not panicking, not quite, but Collette’s next message definitely fills me with relief:
I found you a ride! Be outside in five minutes.
“Oh, thank god,” I mutter, grabbing the handle of my suitcase.
I’ve splurged on a matching new set of luggage. My old suitcase was ancient with a janky zipper. This is one of those new, fancy suitcases with the phone charger built into it that you see Instagram influencers wheeling around looking way cuter than anyone has a right to after a twelve-hour flight.
After approximately five hundred hours of deliberation, I’d gone with the dark green option and a matching canvas duffel bag, which for the purpose of this particular trip is basically 80 percent penis paraphernalia, 20 percent toiletries. I’ve taken to thinking of it as my “bag of dicks.” Technically, this is a co-ed party, but there’s a “girls only” happy hour component of the weekend which I’m fully prepared for.
I haul my bags and the winter parka draped over my arm outside to the curb. It’s only October, so the weather here in the city doesn’t warrant a winter coat, but it freaking snowed in Vermont last week, so I’ve gone with sort of an après-ski theme.
I start paying attention to the cars passing by, only to realize there’s no point since I have no idea who my ride is, or what car they drive. I’m sort of assuming it’ll be Stephanie and Ethan Price. They’re this super-adorable couple I’ve met a handful of times. Ethan works with Collette and Jon, and I learned at the engagement party that they live in my neighborhood.
I don’t know them all that well, but if I have to spend five hours in a car with relative strangers, I’m glad it’s them. Stephanie actually reminds me a little of me. On more than one occasion, we’ve had quite a good chat about the difficulty in finding combat boots that are both cute, and, well, combat. And I’m obsessed with her hair. The tips of her hair were a purple that definitely has me thinking that’ll be my next color when I get tired of the blue streak.
A generic red car pulls up to the curb, and when the trunk pops open, I’m fairly sure that’s my ride. I start wheeling my bag that way, but I skid to a halt when the driver’s side door opens and he steps out.
“You.”
“Me. Again,” Thomas replies, without smiling.
“You’re my ride?” I say, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.
“Obviously, Mac,” he says with a touch of impatience as he comes towards me and reaches for the handle of my bag.
His fingers brush my hand as he takes it from me, his eyes locking on me for a split-second at the contact and then jerking away as he lifts my suitcase easily into the trunk.
It says plenty about how much I love Collette that I force myself to move forward, dropping my duffel bag and parka into the trunk as I fight the tidal wave of dread at the thought of five hours with Thomas and his girlfriend.
He closes the trunk and goes back around to the driver’s side without a word.
I open the back passenger side door and climb inside, slamming the door.
I stare straight ahead, which is why I see Thomas’s hand—a nice hand—appear on the back of the headrest of the passenger seat as he pivots around to look at me.
“Mac. What the hell are you doing?”
I spare him the briefest of glances. “What?”
He gestures to the front seat. “Get up here.”
I blink. “Isn’t—”
I lurch forward, belatedly realizing that Anna’s not just quiet—she’s not there.
“Where’s Anna?”
“Not here, obviously, and I refuse to be your chauffeur, so sit in the front seat, please.”
I only hear the first part of his sentence. “She’s not here, as in she’s getting to Vermont a different way, or not here as in, not coming at all?”
“The latter.” Thomas’s expression betrays nothing, and I have a million questions, but I’m worried they’d betray too much, such as my puzzling giddiness at this news and what it might mean.
Thomas turns back around to face the front, placing both hands on the steering wheel, but makes no move to put the car in drive. He means it about me coming up to the front seat. I sigh, unclicking my seatbelt, and a moment later, I’m re-situated, and he’s pulling into traffic.
“Is this your car?” I ask, glancing around at the nondescript interior. It’s clean, and new-ish, but not particularly fancy.
He shakes his head. “Rental.”
“Do you get out of the city often? For weekend trips?”
“No.”
I sigh. “If we’re going to manage to have civil conversation for the next few hours, you’re going to have to give me better than one-word answers.”
