Thewindowsaredown,and the wind keeps snagging loose hair across my mouth, trying to shut me up.
It's warm outside in the late-afternoon sun. Heat is coming off the asphalt. The air has that faint sweet smell you only get when somebody's mowing and the grass is still bleeding green. Candace drives the way she always drives: both hands on the wheel, shoulders squared, attention moving in quick scans that never read as paranoia until you notice she does it at every light, every turn, every time she slows down. Her sunglasses are shoved up into her hair, the small crease between her brows there even when she's smirking.
Darla rides shotgun with her legs tucked up and her phone in her lap, talking a mile a minute about dinner as though she's planning a wedding instead of feeding a clubhouse full of men who think a vegetable is garnish.
"If we're doing pasta, we need real bread," Darla declares, twisting to look at me. Her cheeks are flushed from the sun, hair catching light. "Not that sad, pre-sliced stuff that smells like a grocery aisle. I want bread with a crust you can hear. Like… crackle."
Candace makes a sound in her throat. "You say that like Malachi isn't going to eat it with his hands anyway."
"That's fine," Darla says, perfectly serious. "He can eat it like a feral raccoon if he wants. But I still want it to crackle."
I laugh, and it surprises me how real it sounds. The wind pushes warm air through the car, carrying faint sugar from the bakery, and for a minute it passes for a normal day. Three women in a car, talking about bread, with music low and sunlight in the side mirrors.
Darla watches my face as though she's measuring whether I'm here with them. Her expression softens when she catches me smiling, and she looks ahead, fingers tapping her screen.
"So," she says, brightening, "prank war. We need to regroup."
Candace glances over. "Regroup from what? From humiliating them in broad daylight? We're currently undefeated."
Darla's grin turns wicked. "Exactly why we need a follow-up. We can't let them think that was the final blow."
"Who started this?" Candace repeats, eyebrow arching. "Pretty sure Ruby started this. Ruby always starts this."
I lean forward between the seats. "We also can't make plans without Ruby. She'll be offended."
Candace lets out a short laugh. "Offended is an understatement."
Darla points at me as though I'm backing her up in court. "Thank you. Because if we plan something and she finds out after—"
"She'll turn her prank war on us," Candace finishes. "And I'm not getting goated."
Darla makes a pleased sound. "I still can't believe she got a goat."
Candace snorts. "I can. Ruby would steal a zoo animal if it meant proving a point."
"And it worked. The look on Nash's face when that goat strutted through the lot? Iconic. I thought Malachi was going to stroke out," I murmur, and Candace's smile sharpens.
"I'm—" Darla's sentence cuts off. She looks at her phone, her hands, out the window feigning fascination with the shape of a tree. It's a small shift. Most people wouldn't catch it.
Her shoulders roll as though she's easing nausea. Her fingers drift to her stomach and press, then slide away as if she's embarrassed. I know what that is. I confirmed it for her and East two weeks ago. But Darla gets to decide when the rest of the world finds out, so I keep my face blank and let her fumble through it.
I shift closer. "You okay?"
Darla twists in her seat to catch my eyes, quick and private. Her look flashes with annoyance, discomfort, a question she's not ready to answer in front of Candace. She lifts her eyebrows. Silent. Don't.
Candace notices anyway, because Candace notices everything.
"What is your deal lately?" She sounds too casual, like she’s asking about the weather. "You've been weird."
"I'm not weird," Darla says instantly, which is always how you know.
Candace slants a look over. "You've been snacking like a feral animal, then looking like you're going to throw up."
Darla's face warms. "I am not feral."
Candace's mouth quirks. "You just called Malachi a raccoon five minutes ago."
"That's different. That's accurate." The word lands with too much weight. She tries to laugh it off. "I saw a TikTok about pickles in peanut butter and now I can't stop thinking about it. Which is disgusting. I know."
