The window rolls back up, and I wheel my crappy shell suitcase around and dump it in, closing the trunk with more force than I intended. I brace for her reprimand when I open the passenger side door, but she says nothing.
Apparently we’re being nice today.
“Do you have your passport?” she asks when I bucklein.
“Yes.”
“Wallet?”
“Yep.”
“House keys.”
“Got ’em.”
“Phone?”
“Jesus, Shannon, yes. I have everything. We’re good.”
She shifts the car into reverse and looks back over her shoulder. “Well, you better hope so, because I am not turning around.”
“History suggests otherwise,” I mutter, and when she turns back toward me, we exchange little knowing smiles.
Shannon and I shared a car all through our high school years. We inherited Grandma Ruby’s old Honda, which she had no further use for after a particularly grueling drive to ours for Christmas. As the oldest, Shannon was of course the one who held the keys—the only time I was allowed to drive was if she needed me as her designated driver—but the perks of being her passenger were numerous.
Since I was paying for a lot of the gas she was using to drive her and her friends around, she couldn’t really refuse to take me with her whenever she went out. Which meant I spent a ton ofmy life cruising around with the older kids, absorbing their wisdom, and then driving them crazy by doing stupid childish things, like forgetting my schoolbag.
“Whatever happened to that car?” I ask as we whiz along the main road out of town. “I genuinely can’t even remember anymore.”
“We sold it after Dan took the wing mirror off pulling out of the garage.”
“Ah.”
The introduction of Dan to the conversation kills it stone dead in an instant. Even when he’s not here he’s ruining everything.
My phone’s Slack app buzzes with a notification. I swipe to openit.
CONNOR:You can’t say you won a competition for inventing an ice cream flavor and then not say what the flavor is
ANNIE:Yes I can
I lock my screen, then clear my throat and try again. When in doubt, there is one subject Shannon always wants to talk about. And that is her wedding.
“So how’s the planning coming along? Mom said you guys are thinking September?”
“Maybe. Not sure,” she says. Her hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Oh?”
Her eyes flick up to the rearview mirror and back again. “There’s just a lot left to figure out. September might be too soon.”
Never would be too soon.
“Like what?”
“Well, they’re putting a new roof on the church at the moment,” she says vaguely. “And that might not be done in time.”
It’s April, but OK. Maybe church roofs take five months. I can’t argue that scaffolding would ruin the vibe.
