Page 73 of Man Flu

“Don’t be,” he says.

Brielle grabs her coffee and quietly leaves the office. “The flat tire thing is a thing?”

“Thanks to the Sunday morning newspaper cartoons, it’s a thing. I think there are t-shirts out there that say, ‘Logan’s got a flat tire and no spare.’”

“That’s crude and distasteful,” I tell him.

“It’s fine. The number of puns I’ve heard have really given me a new sense of appreciation for all the dickheads out there.”

A horrible snorting sound wrenches through my throat as I fold over laughing. “Oh, stop.” I’m going to pee myself, for real.

“Want to share a car with me tomorrow morning? They told me to book one, but I saw you already have one coming to pick you up. Plus, snow is coming, and I can help you out.”

I know what this all means. It means I still haven’t gotten a wax job, it’s snowing, and Logan’s ready to have his flat tire blown, which means …, “Uh, yeah, that would be great. We can order out or something. Can your stomach handle pizza yet?”

“I think I’ll be okay with that,” he says.

“Um, can you start printing out the event-labeled files I have in the shared folder? I have a quick errand I need to run for tomorrow. If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be back within the hour.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

He needs to stop saying that. It sends my mind in completely the wrong direction.