"This is the place," he says confidently as he points to the screen, showing me where to go.
"If you say so."
Whenwearrive,itis, in fact, NOT the place.
"How do you not remember the name of the company?" I complain as he enters the information for another garage.
"Please stop yelling at me!" he hollers, like he's in the middle of diffusing a bomb instead of plugging in an address.
"I'm not yelling!" I shout, but barely. "Google classic Mustang repairs in San Diego."
"I did, and it's only showing me results of businesses who want to buy vintage cars, not repair them."
We're driving in circles until Theo can figure out the next location.
"I'm certain this is the place." He points to my phone screen.
"Great."
We make our way there in silence, and luckily for Theo, he’s right. Because I was about to head home and tell him his mommy can do this for him.
He collects his phone and returns to my car.
When we reach the freeway on-ramp, we're met with gridlock traffic.
"When I get really stressed out," Theo begins, "Sometimes my brain stops functioning."
I'm taken aback by how forthright he's being. We barely touch the surface of honesty and here he is diving in.
"I didn't mean to yell at you. I get overwhelmed sometimes when I have tunnel vision, and it's like my body doesn't know how to operate."
"Oh, it's okay," I stammer, because umm, where is this coming from? "If you want to talk about anything, I charge by the hour."
Theo is correct in his assumption I deflect with jokes when things get intense.
"Charge by the hour? What's your going rate, and does that include the mouth?"
Sounds like he does, too.
Taking my hand off the wheel, I lightly punch his shoulder with my right fist.
We laugh as traffic continues to inch forward. But as I take my foot off the brake, Theo and I are flung forward, our seat belts locking us in place.
Myneckjerksforwardas someone rear-ends us.
"Owwww," Amelia whines.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." She looks in her rearview mirror. "It scared me, that's all."
Her car was already in the slow lane, so it doesn't take long for her to steer onto the shoulder.
A young boy pulls up behind us in a massive SUV.
We are outside the car as traffic creeps by, craning to get a glimpse of carnage.
Sucks for them; all they will see is Amelia's bumper, which now resembles a wad of crumpled paper.
