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“What, you don’t want to play cards?”
“I don’t use my brain before noon; you should know by now.”
We’ve established a steady rapport over the past three weeks. If I told Allison about it, she would classify it as flirting. My mom would start planning the wedding. I’m sure she once put me marrying a rockstar on a vision board.
After that, I stopped letting her go to college night at the community center. My mom can manifest all she wants, but Vince and I are just friends, plain and simple, even if the early morning light is bringing out the blue hues in his hair, which looks extra silky today.
When Vince catches me staring, he grins. “What? Dreaming about me?”
I make a fake gagging noise. “In your dreams.”
Priya scrapes the last bits of oatmeal from her mug, then licks the spoon.
“Contrary to what you may believe, Vince, not everyone spends every hour of the day thinking about you.”
“Well, they should!” Vince declares in mock indignation.
I grab the wall to steady myself and walk to the front of the bus, where Dave focuses on the road.
“Are we stopping at all this morning?” I ask.
He nods. “We’ll grab gas and whatever else in ten.”
“Perfect. Alright, gang, you heard him! We’re stopping in ten!” I holler to the back.
“Please tell me there’s real coffee. I want a matcha latte in a little ceramic cup painted by an old lady. I want a flaky croissant,” she laments.
“We’ll see what we can find,” I reassure her. Surprisingly enough, Priya is a homebody, contrary to her bombastic personality onstage. On the nights when the Wi-Fi is strong enough, she has her girlfriend, Jamie, FaceTime her with all three of their cats: Do, Rae, and Mi.
Dave pulls into the gas station and lines the bus up with the diesel filling station.
When the bus comes to a halt, we walk out into the morning air, fresh, but tinged with the scent of gasoline. There are no coffee shops in sight, just a truck stop attached to a combination fast-food joint—a monstrous conglomeration of fats and fried food as a monument to America.
“Sorry, Priya,” I say, squeezing her shoulder.
“It’s fine,” she mumbles.
The bell above the door dings as we enter the gas station, one of the only familiar parts of the tour. No matter where we are in the country, the foamy thunk of coolers closing sounds the same. Apollo makes a beeline to the multicolored cooler full of sodas and energy drinks before selecting an energy drink.
I grab a tall can of orange-flavored seltzer water and a tiny jar of cold brew with a label that boasts small batches and looks vaguely promising. The cashier peers from behind the drink cooler, doing a double-take, and smooths out the blue polyester of her uniform polo.
Priya brushes against her as she walks over to the carafe of burnt coffee, selecting a paper cup.
“Are you Priya?”
Priya nods and smiles gracefully as she poses for a photo.
“My mom’s gonna freak out! I grew up listening to your music!” the cashier gushes.
“That’s lovely to hear. Thank you so much. What’s your name?” Priya demurs.
“I’m Nora! Let me get you a fresh batch of coffee,” Nora says, reaching for the black plastic container.
“Oh, don’t go out of your way,” Priya insists.
“Nah, I’ve gotcha. I was going to change it in a couple of minutes, anyway. It’s no trouble at all.”
Nora returns moments later and hefts a fresh container of coffee onto the counter. Priya grins as she fills her paper cup to the brim.
