Page 25 of Up in Smoke

I’d hang on to a man for dear life, by my fingertips if I had to, even if it meant putting other people in my life on the backburner. Look where that’s got me—nearly thirty and smack dab in the middle of a single life that younger me was deathly afraid of.

Bitter, lonely cat lady nightmares used to be a weekly occurrence. The fear was real.

I don’t care so much about that anymore. If I end up single, so be it. I’ve learned my lesson, and my romantic reform is in full swing. I’m all for weekends like this instead of wasted days with a commitment-phobe man-child.

After picking up the hat I store in the side pocket of my door, I balance the top of my knee on the bottom of the steering wheel. It’s a dangerous habit to drive like this, I’m aware. But the mess of hair on my head is going to send me into an overstimulated spiral if I can’t throw it up before we get to the highway. I swore I’d wear it down after meticulously styling it this morning, but that intention never fails to fall through approximately two hours into a hot West Texas day.

As I gather the unruly strands to the back of my head, Tripp instinctively leans over to take control of the wheel. He smells like an energizing mix of fresh air and clean minty soap. I work to ignore his tatted forearm invading my space, focusing insteadon fixing my hair and the music streaming softly through the speakers.

“Thanks,” I say, tightening my ponytail and pulling it through the back of my ball cap. “Insert women are bad drivers joke here.”

He huffs a laugh and settles back in his seat as I retake the wheel. I wait for him to respond with one of his laugh-inducing one-liners, but his eyes linger on my side profile for a moment before he turns to look out the window, letting the quiet continue. With Blythe and Savannah both preoccupied by something on their phones now, the front of the car feels more like a secluded chamber of tension.

After a beat of awkward silence, I decide to lift my arms above my head and lean back until I’m looking at the roof of the car. It pulls Tripp’s attention immediately, and sweet satisfaction settles in my smile.

“Jesus.” He jumps to retake the wheel while I pretend to yawn and stretch. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Better a little cuckoo than utterly boring, I always say.”

Our light laughter blends together in contagious delight, replacing the once uncomfortable silence. He’s still leaning over the center console to get a better grip on the wheel with his left hand. I reopen my eyes to see his expression that accompanies his new, freer sound of amusement.

It’s puzzling. He wears a smile, but seems to be thinking deeply at the same time. Maybe he’s secretly annoyed by my antics. His crooked grin suggests otherwise, though.

A breeze blows in through the open driver’s side window, and I extend an arm out to weave it through the crisp spring air.

Having just met him, it’s challenging to guess what he’s thinking. I shouldn’t be so curious after being around him for such a short amount of time. And yet, like the birth of a newaddiction, the urge to master the interpretation of his many tells plants roots in my brain.

Tripp doesn’t complain about me taking my time to steer the car myself again. I let him keep us steady on the road while gusts of country air fill my lungs.

Once I sit up straight and return my hands to their rightful place, he sits fully back in his seat. To avoid another patch of silence, I absentmindedly sing along to Savannah’s playlist.

“You’re butchering this song,” he mumbles, straight-faced. “Like—violently.”

“Wow. I thought this was a safe space.”

“It was.” He shakes his head. “Until you declared war on carrying a simple tune.”

“Okay, rude.”

“Where’s the lie, though?”

“Enough,” I demand with a giggle, knowing he’s spot-on.

I watch the road between stolen looks in his direction. He barely lifts the corner of his mouth, but I sense a flipped switch. My suspicion is confirmed when he crosses his arms.

“Can I ask you something?”

“If it’s about my lack of vocal talent, I swear to god?—”

“No,” he chuckles. “I’m being serious. Kinda.”

“Oh. I—yeah. Of course.”

I roll up my window and then flick my eyes to the rearview mirror. Savannah is leaning back with her eyes closed, and Blythe is taking a phone call in a hushed voice. Both oblivious. Tripp clears his throat and drums his fingers.

“Were you just playing hard to get last night?”

Realizing he wants to know if he should give up hitting on me shouldn’t thrill me the way it does. He’s still thinking about it a day later, and a giddy shiver tickles up my spine.

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