Page 94 of Sweeter Than Fiction

Man, she’s adorable.

“And that’s a bad thing?” I ask.

“When we have things to do, yes. Plus, your mom is home—hence my reasoning for coming in here.”

“Huh?”

“She needs you to move the truck so that she can park closer to the garage or something.”

“Oh, okay,” I reply. “Just grab the keys off the dresser and go move it.”

“Uh, that’s okay,” she says. “It’s a rental. It’s under your name.”

“Who cares?”

She looks offended. “I care, Donovan. That’s…dishonest. And probably illegal.”

“Illegal? Who are you? The rental car police?” I read her face and try to figure out what’s going on. She looks like the cat who ate the canary.

“Wait a minute,” I say as it suddenly starts to sink in. “Do you not know how to drive?”

“What? That’s insane…” Her voice trails off at the end.

“Abby, I can sit here all day,” I tell her.

“Fine,” she huffs. “I can’t drive. I live in Manhattan! Why would I have any need to drive?”

“You never even wanted to get your license?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “What’s the point? I wouldn’t use it. And have you seen New York City? Do I look like someone who could keep her cool driving in that traffic? I think not.”

I can’t imagine not having a license. Then again, how often do I actually use mine in New York? Not all that often. Cabs and the subway have become my usual modes of transportation. So, who am I to judge?

“Alright, alright,” I say. “Give me a minute, and I’ll get out and come move the truck.”

“Where are we going, beautiful?” I ask Abby.

Since she can’t drive, she’s been giving me turn-by-turn directions. You’d think I would know exactly where we are headed since I grew up here, but we are far off the beaten path. And it’s been quite a while since I’ve been on some of these country roads. Even in my last few years of living here, I was mainly living and working in Omaha.

“It’s a surprise,” she mumbles. “Turn right up here.”

She gives me a couple more directions before I finally see a sign that says:

Goodwin Paintball

That can’t be where we are going, right? Abby doesn’t seem like the paintball type.

We turn onto a dirt road that leads back into the woods.

“Abby, baby, what are we doing?” I ask.

“Just having a little fun.”

I pull into a makeshift parking spot in the grass and put the truck in park.

“Okay, baby. You have some explaining to do,” I tell her. “Paintball?”

She nods. “I wanted to do something fun for you. And when I talked to Jill, she said this was something you loved to do when you lived here.”

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