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“Fine,” I conceded, tossing him the keys as I went back around to the passenger seat. Michael laughed at my glower as he passed me.
“Your mom’s poutin,’ Rhett,” he said as he opened the driver’s side door.
“Mama pout.”
“I am not,” I said, spinning to face Rhett as Mick closed my door. Rhett was giggling, his face pressed into his blanket.
“Mama pout,” Rhett teased, grinning at me in the little mirror.
“It’s like drivin’ a clown car,” Michael grumbled as he pushed the driver’s seat as far back as it would go. “Was it always this small?”
“That’s what she said,” I mumbled under my breath.
Michael’s surprised gaze shot to me. The joke was an old one, but I hadn’t ever said it. Back in the day, it had been his and Rumi’s favorite one-liner to make me giggle and scold them.
He cleared his throat. “I can’t believe you’re still drivin’ this thing.”
“She’s reliable.” I reached out and patted the dash. “Why would I get something new?”
“I remember when your parents bought it for you after graduation,” Mick said, backing out of the driveway. “I couldn’t tell if you were going to jump up and down with joy or cry.”
“I felt like doing both. It was ‘ah, freedomandI’m going to look like a fifty-year-old hippie librarian’rolled into one. She’s been a good car, though, and I’ve got killer trunk space.”
“Drives nice,” he replied. “You’ve been keepin’ up on maintenance?”
“You sound like my dad,” I joked.
The words fell like an anvil between us. It was a generic teasing statement, but there was too much history there for it to be funny. I wasn’t even sure how to backtrack.
“Frances,” Rhett piped up from the back seat. “Frances!”
“Who’s Frances?” Mick asked, reaching up to adjust the mirror so he could look at Rhett.
Rhett patted the window. “Frances.”
“What is he talking about?” Mick asked me in confusion.
An embarrassed laugh made its way up my throat, and I struggled to keep it contained.
“You can do it, Frances,” I said, snorting, patting the dash. “Just a little bit further, old girl.”
“Jesus,” Mick muttered in amusement.
“Do it, Frances,” Rhett copied in the back seat, patting the door.
“I’ll put some more gas in as soon as we get to Eugene,” I continued, loving the sound of his chuckle as I rubbed along the dash. “Won’t that be nice?”
“Nice, Frances,” Rhett parroted.
“Coupla weirdos,” he said, shaking his head. “Hey, if you take it to the shop on Monday, I can have one of the boys make sure everything’s good after your road trip.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I said, relaxing back into my seat. “I had an oil change and my tires rotated before we left.”
“You need new tires,” Mick said easily. “The ones you’ve got are bald as fuck.”
“Bald fuck,” Rhett parroted.
“Michael,” I hissed.
