The one who knew it wasn’t only a broken arm or a bad kidney sitting on my table, but someone with a story.
“What’s this thing for Veda today?” Tyler asks.
“It’s a, erm, celebration of accomplishments. With a big…reception…before the ceremony.”
I get another what the fuck is wrong with you? look.
Legit.
I’m lying to the man about the fact that we’re on the way to a funeral, because I’m still afraid he’ll bail if I tell him the truth, and I’m not doing a very good job of it. Even I don’t believe me.
I mean, I wouldn’t if I didn’t already know I was glossing over the most important details.
So I do what any rational person in my position would do.
I shove two powdered sugar Donettes in my mouth at once, which makes one of them stick like glue to the top of my mouth.
I can’t answer a question if I’m giving myself a headache by trying to pry a donut off the roof of my mouth with my tongue.
Tyler slides me another look.
He sighs the same way I’ve heard people sigh when encountering me and my mother our entire lives.
And then he cranks the radio up again.
Probably for the best.
Also?
I’m pretty sure I owe him big time.
10
Tyler
We’re two hours down the road and my dick and I are still debating what to say to Muffy about me leaving her unsatisfied at that party.
I don’t want to talk about it.
I want a chance to do it better. But he’s not cooperating. And the idea of staying overnight in a hotel with her isn’t helping. Especially when she’s made it clear she reserved two rooms.
You and your broken dick are not welcome to play in my garden is the message, loud and clear.
“Restroom!” she suddenly exclaims, pointing to a sign on the road as she snaps her head up from her phone, which she’s been working on nonstop since not telling me why she has to go to Richmond.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
“Yes!”
There’s a hint of desperation in the word that has me cutting a glance at her. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
She’s sweating and squeaking one-word answers.
“Okay. Okay. Restroom.”
You don’t grow up road-tripping to various cities where your mom’s having a show without learning some people have bladders the size of a walnut. My dream used to be to go an entire six-hour road trip without stopping once.
Scratch Muffy off the list of people I could take with me.
But I also won’t be the guy who refuses to stop. Not like I have plans she’s keeping me from.
I pull off the interstate and pick a gas station. As soon as I stop at the pump, she darts out of the car and dashes for the shop, almost trips on her heels, straightens, and makes it inside.
If she’s sick, we’re turning around.
Oh, shit.
What if she’s carsick?
Nope. No way. She was fine until five minutes ago. We even had a little debate between her playing on her phone and me dialing the radio sound back up about whether Calvin & Hobbes or The Far Side was the greatest comic strip ever written.
Oh.
Wait.
She ate an entire bag of Donettes and has been staring at her phone half the trip.
She might be carsick, but there’s probably a reason for it.
“Hey, man, anyone ever tell you that you look like Tyler Jaeger?” a guy at the next pump says. Our cars are facing opposite directions, and I can see his back window, decorated with those stick figure families that tell you how many kids and dogs the guy has, except all of his stick figures are versions of Thrusty, my team’s rocket-powered bratwurst mascot.
Nice.
Still, I shake my head, playing it low-key because these days, I never know if people recognize me as a hockey player or as Daisy Carter-Kincaid’s most famous, most single in-law. Technically, my mom’s more famous than I am, but she’s not young, hot, and single.
Also, please note: Being Daisy’s most famous in-law is akin to I went viral on social media once for a TikTok video of myself admiring the shape of a fried egg while high. Playing hockey isn’t on the same continent as Daisy’s level of fame. Possibly even in the same galaxy. “No. Who’s that?”
“For real? Man, you look just like him.”
“Must be a pretty great dude.”
“Not really. Hockey player. Fourth line material, you know? He’s no Duncan Lavoie.”
Ouch. “Don’t follow it.”
“Seriously? Wow. The resemblance is uncanny. Take my word for it. You could pretend to be him and charge people for selfies.” He snort-chuckles. “Probably suit up for a game and do as good of a job too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Muffy’s not out when I finish topping off the car—another old habit I picked up from Mom’s touring days when we almost ran out of gas a time or two—so I move it to a parking spot by the door and go inside looking for her. Not looking forward to busting into the women’s room to check on her, but turns out, I don’t have to.
She’s in the candy aisle.
“That whole bag of Donettes wasn’t enough?”
Her entire body goes visibly stiff before she turns a glacier-melting scowl on me. “Some of us stress eat, okay, Mr. Fish-and-chips?”
Did I stick my foot in my mouth? Because I feel like I definitely stuck my foot in my mouth. “Did you throw up?”
And now she’s giving me the are you a shapeshifting worm who digs up my flowers for fun? look. “No.”
“You looked sick.”
“You look lovely today too, Tyler. Your beard really makes your neanderthal stick out.” She snatches a pack of gummy bears off a hook and marches past me.
The guy who was at the next pump pauses at the end of the aisle, looks at me, then at Muffy, then back to me. “Holy hell. You are Tyler Jaeger. I didn’t mean what I said about that fourth line thing. I—”
“Keep supporting the Thrusters, man.” I clap him on the back and step past him to follow Muffy, who’s snagging breath mints and two king-size candy bars from the racks under the checkout counter. “I got this.”
“I can pay for my own junk food,” she mutters.
This is exactly the problem, my dick tells me. You’re an idiot when it comes to Muffy.
“Should’ve taken that shot in the second period last night,” the cashier tells me.
“Shit happens.”
Muffy pays for her stuff and marches out of the shop, with me trailing behind like a puppy. She stops short on the sidewalk outside, squints at the pump I used to fill up the Maserati, spots my car to her left, and keeps marching.
It’s on the chilly side today—thank you, November weather—and she didn’t put her coat back on after wiggling out of it back in Copper Valley, so I have a very clear view of her curvy ass hugged tight in that black dress.
Anything? I ask my dick.
She’s just not into us, he replies with a yawn.
And that’s why I’m here. To fix it. Figure out where I went wrong, what I can do better, and get back out there. So I climb into my car and start the engine while Muffy sits there clutching her bag of snacks.