Gallon of water plus a chocolate milk, check.
Lemonade for Ollie, check. (Also, gross.)
Mars bars? Hello, handsome, where have you been all my life? Double check.
I can barely carry it all up to the register, and I have to do that thing where you dump the soft parts from the top before you set down the breakable things.
“Will that be all?” the clerk asks.
I give him a grin. “Is there anything left?”
He snorts and rings me up.
I dart outside into the blistering cold. Heavy snow tumbles through the darkness, visible only where the store’s glow and a single flickering parking lot light cut through the night. I rush to our little red car, keeping my face tucked into my coat as deep as I can. When I get to my side, Ollie leans over the driver’s seat and throws the door open for me.
“What took you so long?” he asks when I sit down.
I shake out the snow from my hair. “I went to the bathroom and grabbed snacks. Did you not use the bathroom?”
“No. I didn’t need to.”
“Is this your first road trip? You should have tried anyway.”
“But I don’t need to go.”
“Famous last words,” I say. I grab my chocolate milk and put it in the cupholder and then hand him his lemonade, “Sorry, I didn’t know what to get you. I assumed you’d come in, so when you didn’t, I just grabbed something I knew you liked.”
He looks at his drink quizzically. “How did you know I like lemonade?”
“You ordered it at the diner.” I back out, and soon we’re on the road again, listening to the familiar soundtrack of passing cars and the whine of the heater fan. “There are plenty of snacks, so help yourself.”
He tears the beef jerky open and offers me the bag. I take a piece and throw it in my mouth, and then he follows.
The spice hits my tongue with a light burn. “Oh, I should probably warn you, that’s a little?—”
“HOT!” he says, coughing.
“Spit it out!” I tell him, risking a glance at his face. Even in the dark, I can see he’s bright red.
He shakes his head, chewing with his mouth open, as if it’ll let off heat. His hand flies up to fan his mouth, and his elbow smacks into the window with a solid thunk.
“Ow!” he yelps, jerking forward, his knees cracking against the glove compartment. The car is so small, his thrashing makes the whole thing rock.
He makes a big, pained swallow.
“Why?” he cries, his eyes big like he’s been betrayed. He’s rubbing his elbow and breathing like he just ran a marathon.
I crack open my chocolate milk and thrust it into his hand. “Here, the dairy will help neutralize it,” I say. “And stop writhing! You’re going to roll the car.”
He ignores me and starts guzzling.
“No, keep it in your mouth longer!” I say, my attention torn between the road and Ollie folded up like a flaming accordion in the passenger seat.
But the chocolate milk is gone in seconds, and he’s still panting and fanning his mouth—elbows tucked in this time.
“How can you live like this?” he asks.
I bite back a laugh. “I love spicy stuff. My mom’s half Thai, and she started mixing chili paste with my cheese and crackers when I was young.”
