I shriek.
His coffee has burst open and splashed all over one of my feet, and the blue slush is dripping down onto the other. I kick off my pink flats and shake it from my pale-yellow skirt.
He stands there, arms out to his side, scowling at the stains down his front and the pile of blue ICEE on his sneaker.
The ICEE that splattered on the side of my white car keeps sliding down, leaving faint blue streaks.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
I wiggle my coffee foot. “You could have scalded me! Watch where you’re going.”
His mouth flattens into a scowl. “Me? You’re the one who ran into me.”
“What? I was standing by my car, digging in my purse. You ran into me.” I lift the bag, still hooked over my arm, then groan. “It’s in my purse.”
Still glaring, he starts running his fingers through his hair but remembers they’re blue. “I can’t believe this day. Six-a.m. flight, eternal layover, lost luggage, and now you.” He waves in my direction as if I’m pond scum.
Jerk. I open my mouth, but he shakes the ICEE from his shoe and spins away to go back inside.
I follow him. “How dare you. I didn’t do this.”
He yanks napkins from a dispenser and dabs at his shirt. “Then why am I wearing the contents of your cup? Who drinks that crap anyway?”
“Who drinks hours-old gas-station coffee? Disgusting.” Though, those hours are likely the only thing saving me from second-degree burns.
“Look around.” He spreads his arms. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s not exactly a Starbucks on every corner.”
I grab a napkin and brush it down my front. “My skirt is ruined.”
“Did you hear me? Lost luggage. I literally have nothing else to wear. And I’m late.”
I cross my arms over my chest and nod to the section of gifts and other random items in the corner, particularly the rack under a sign offering T-shirts for less than eight dollars. “Well, I guess you better go shopping.”
While he frowns at them, I check my watch, snag another handful of napkins, and walk away.
After purchasing a new ICEE and draining my shoes, I hit the road and let out a pent-up growl as my phone rings. Dad’s checking in again. I haven’t made many solo road trips. I stab at a button on the dash to answer it.
“Hello,” I practically yell.
There’s a pause. “Everything okay, honey?”
“Yeah. Someone spilled blue ICEE all over my new skirt and then had the audacity to yell atmeabout it. Ugh.”
“What? How did that happen?”
“What happened?” Mom’s anxious voice pipes up. “Is Morgan okay?”
The phone echoes as Dad switches to speakerphone, so I launch into a gripe-fest.
When I finish, Mom giggles.
“Mom, it’s not funny. This is why I’ve sworn off dating until I get to college. Boys are idiots, and they’re rude. And pushy. Even the cute ones.”
“Too true,” Dad agrees. He’s probably smiling, which further annoys me. “In fact, you shouldn’t date until you’re thirty.”
Mom sings out, “Thatisthe agreement you made when you were five.”
“I think it was binding,” Dad adds.
