Buddy lets out a soft huff and thumps his tail against the seat, tongue lolling, clearly enjoying the attention.
I laugh, shaking my head.
“Uh-uh. He’s sworn to secrecy. You’ll see soon enough.”
Stormy turns back to me with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. She’s glowing and not just from the golden spill of early evening light through the windshield, but from something inside.
She leans back, still smiling, and I swear the whole truck feels warmer as we settle into a comfortable rhythm. The truck hums along the road, and the low sun stretches long across the fields. I quietly promise to myself:to do my best to keep that smile on her face, whenever I can.
A short while into the drive, Stormy shifts in her seat, tucking one leg beneath her, cardigan sleeves pulled down over her hands like a soft cocoon.
She glances at me.
“Do you have any music?” Her voice is light.
I shake my head, eyes still on the road.
“Not really. I don’t usually listen to anything in here.”
She turns towards me with her brows raised in disbelief. “Wait … you drive in silence? Like, actual silence?”
I laugh, the sound low and amused.
“What can I say? I like the peace.”
She gasps, mock dramatic, hand to her chest.
“That’s borderline criminal, Ford. Can I … put something on?”
“Sure,” I say, narrowing my eyes playfully. “But please tell me it’s not going to be that girly stuff you and Missy were dancing to that time I walked in on you both.” Her cheeks flush instantly, and I catch it in my peripheral vision, that soft pink blooming across her face. It’s adorable. “You did look very cute, though,” I add, unable to help myself. “All carefree. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh that hard.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling widely now. “Come on, it’s good music. I’m sure you’ll survive.” Her smile softens, turning nostalgic. “Me and my sister used to dance around to this stuff when we were younger. It was our thing.”
She connects her phone to the truck’s Bluetooth, and within seconds, the cab is filled with upbeat pop, catchy hooks, and glittery vocals—the kind of stuff that makes you want to dance even if you pretend you don’t. I want to ask about her sister, about her mom and her dad, but she’s been through enough today and I don’t want to dredge up any more bad feelings, so I leave it for now.
I endure the music with a grin, watching her mouth the lyrics and tap her fingers against her thigh. She’s so damn adorable, and I kind of love it. Stormy is unfiltered, and it feels easy to be with her.
But then, a few songs in, I freeze.
The opening beat to a very familiar song kicks in, ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls, and it’s like my brain short-circuits. Stormy doesn’t say anything, but I catch the shift in her posture; the way she glances at me, her lips rolling together like she’s trying to hold something in, eyes glinting with something suspicious.
I glance over.
“You know this song?”
She asks casually, but there’s a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
I shrug, trying to play it cool.
“I mean, who doesn’t?”
A few seconds pass. Her gaze lingers. I narrow my eyes. “You’re acting weird.”
She laughs innocently.
“I’m not! Why would I be acting weird, Ford?” A tiny giggle slips out, betraying her.
Her grin is pure mischief, and suddenly it clicks.
