My dad stops beside me. “Who’s the girl?”
I stare at an empty sidewalk, imagining her gallivanting around the city in her fuzzy sweater rather than meeting up with the asshole who didn’t want to see her.
“My version of Betty White.”
My dad makes a grumbling sound, jolting me from my daydream. His scowl does an irritated dance between the open Uber app on his phone and the rusty Honda Civic that’s backing up against the curb next to us.
“What thehell.”
Here we go again.
A guy not much older than me with six inches of boxers hanging out of the waist of his cargos steps out of the front seat. Chains clank and swing against his thigh as he saunters toward the—What happened to his trunk?It’s caved in on one side andrequires a WWF wrestling move to open it. It pops a few inches and he pries it the rest of the way with clawed fingers. I’d load our own stuff but he’s blocking the opening as he uses the shrouded hunk of metal for support.
“I think there’s been some kind of mistake. I booked a?—”
I interrupt my dad with a hand to his shoulder. “It’s fine. We don’t need an SUV for a duffel and two suitcases.”
“Sorry, bro. Jimmy’s main man, Ricky, needed the rig today. Got a wicked deal on a pool table for the crib. Facebook Marketplace is dope.” He leaves his high-five hand hanging in the air as he chuckles to himself. When neither of us claps it, he swipes the underside of his nose with his thumb, and my dad squints.
I think he just spoke about himself in the third person.
“Jimmy, is it?” I ask. “I’m Reed. This is Emmett.” I confirm our names just to be sure we have the right driver. When he doesn’t deny it, I turn my dad by the shoulders, escorting him to the back seat. “We appreciate the ride.”
The driver shows off a full grill. He has to fist the waist of his pants to keep them from dropping to his ankles.
When I climb into the car, I’m impressed by how clean the interior is. And by clean I mean lacking the pile of trash I expected to have to swim through. There’s still a musty odor of stale fast food that clings to the fabric of the seats, and my dad holds the stiffest posture known to mankind, like he’s trying to save his precious suit from needing a dry clean.
Whether we wanted to talk or not, there’s no chance with the base booming the way that it is. While Dad uses our silent ride to leave Jimmy a scathing review, I make the mistake of opening Instagram.
A selfie of Miles and Teddy is the first thing to grace my screen. His arm is snaked around her waist anddamnif she doesn’t look beautiful in that black bikini. Spots flash in my vision and the muscles in my jaw tick. Thatsame awful feeling that ate me alive all summer whenever I saw them together courses through me now. I know I shouldn’t expect to be over it after a few days, but I want to be. I swipe the app closed and vow never to open it again.
Twelve minutes of Limp Bizkit later, we arrive at the Lithia Ford Lincoln of Boise dealership. We both choke out a cough as Jimmy peels out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of exhaust as a parting gift.
“We could’ve avoided all of this had we just driven my truck,” I remind him.
He stiffens.
“It’s not just sitting around. Ronny will use it,” he says.
I take that as my cue to drop the conversation and follow him. Rows and rows of vehicles with price tags painted on the windshields greet us. We don’t make it more than ten feet before a salesman in a tight black polo makes a beeline to the row of F-150s we’re looking at.
“Can I help you gentlemen find what you’re looking for today?” He hugs a clipboard to his side. One of thoseHello, my name isstickers clings to his pocket with the nameWaylonscribbled in barely legible Sharpie.
Dad nods to the line of pickups. “We’re interested in your 2024 model.”
Waylon readies his clipboard. “Right this way.”
“I don’t need a new model,” I whisper as we follow. “There’s a good chance it’ll just sit there for the next two months or get beat up in the mountains.”
“I don’t care what happens to the truck, Reed. You need a vehicle, and I’m not about to buy a piece of shit that could break down forty-five minutes down the highway.”
I sigh. There’s nothing I could say or do to change his mind at this point. My dad likes nice things. And the fact that both my parents are successful attorneys in Park City means they’venever taken the practical road when it comes to financial decisions. I know when to pick my battles with him, and this isn’t one.
The salesman stops in front of an olive-green Raptor.
“That’s the sticker price. But I can knock it down to seventy-seven K for you.”
My dad circles the truck like a predator stalking its prey. He inspects who knows what while I follow a few steps behind him, pretending to do the same.
