Page 53 of Friends Don't

Poppy reaches forward and squeezes his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

Holland pats her hand. “It’ll be fine.”

We spend the next thirty seconds in awkward silence. I navigate out of the airport and am on a straight road heading to the interstate when Poppy pokes her head through the space between Holland and me.

“Your windshield is gross, Big. Can you see to drive?”

She’s right. There are numerous bug splatters coating the glass. I press the button to dispense the windshield-wiper fluid and let out a curse.

Instead of the clear cleaning solution, I now have a rainbow of paint smeared across the front window of my truck.

From my side, Poppy lets out a cackle that could rival the hyenas inThe Lion King. I am so stunned I don’t have the wherewithal to flick off the wipers, so across they go again, smudging the paint into a cacophony of colors.

“Gotcha, Big.”

I face her only to find her phone poised in what I assume is therecordposition. “Seriously?”

“We told you to watch your back.” Poppy drops her phone and taps away at a text. “Rose is going to love this. Your face was priceless. Meme-worthy. You looked like a constipated cat.”

“Really helping the ol’ self-esteem there, Boo.”

Poppy laughs.

“Um, what’s going on?” Holland is staring between us.

I open my mouth, but Poppy beats me to an explanation. “Ever since Big played a hand in pranking Rose and me, we’ve been looking for a chance to get him back.”

“I told you, that’s not how Cashmere Cove pranks work.”

Poppy waves me off. “Rules change.”

“I should have warned you about the pranks.” Holland palms his forehead.

Poppy looks at him funny. “You did, remember? In that email. You were too late, but at least you tried.”

I clear my throat, and Holland catches my eye.

“Right.” He clears the confusion from his face and instead looks apologetically at Poppy. “Sorry about that. Again.” He nods at the windshield. “I hope it’s washable.”

Poppy looks affronted. “We’re not cruel. It’ll come right off.”

I put my hazard lights on and steer us into the parking lot of the nearest gas station.

“I’m going to use the bathroom while you get this cleaned up.” Poppy hops out of the car.

“Watch out for exploding toilets,” I say to her back as she jogs to the door.

She tosses a grin over her shoulder, ponytail swaying with her momentum.

I reach for the squeegee and start cleaning, trying to wipe the mental image of Poppy’s toned legs in cut-off denim shorts from my mind’s eye. Holland steps out the passenger seat and slings his hands into his pockets. He’s got his baseball hat on, and he looks like a movie star, even standing in a Podunk gas station parking lot.

“So,” he says, “you and Poppy seem to have hit it off.”

I shrug.

“What was all that?” he presses.

I glance over at him. He looks curious rather than upset. “We’re friends.”

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