freezes, his arm reaching to shut his door, and he snorts dramatically. He pulls the door shut and faces me. “Before we hit the road, we need to clarify what just came out of your mouth.”
“Sorry, what?” He has my mind so muddled, I can’t even remember speaking. I tug on the belt some more, but it doesn’t budge.
He shifts toward me, one hand resting on his armrest, the other on the steering wheel. “I’m pretty sure the word ‘sugar’ just passed those lips of yours in some sort of adorable curse. Is that a fair assumption?”
Frickin’ perfect. I’m so used to not swearing, I don’t even notice when I word-vomit stuff like “sugar.” My dork status just tipped the dork scale.
He cocks his head and studies me. “Explain yourself, Canada. Don’t make me regret these travel arrangements.”
That smirk on his face is infectious, and I find myself smiling with him. To explain what I said would mean I have to talk about my family, which is something I rarely do. Growing up, I never invited friends (my one former friend) over to witness the oddities in my house. If my clumsy self didn’t send people running for the hills, Dad’s tendency to hoard, Mom’s always smoking oven, and their need to dance around to hippie music semi-clothed would surely do the trick.
I tighten my hands around the still-stuck seat belt, squeezing like it’s a security blanket. I shrug with a tight laugh. “I told you I have five younger siblings, right?” He nods. “Well, I try not to swear in front of them. You know, to keep it clean. Old habits die hard.”
His eyes roam my face. “Cool. I get that. And it’s fucking adorable. Shit. Shit. Sorry. Do we have to make the car a swear-free zone?”
“No. God, it’s not like that. I don’t have a problem with swearing, I’m just so used to not doing it.” I release one hand from the seat belt and wave it in the air. “Let the obscenities fly.”
Scrunching his face, he throws his hands rapper-style. “Fuck, bitch, that’s some motherfucking kick-ass skirt.” Then he winks.
A yelp bursts from my mouth. I laugh, tipping forward into the seat belt, holding onto the thing for dear life.
He leans toward me, looking sheepish. “Was that too much?”
I hold my thumb and finger an inch apart. “A tad,” I say, the remaining giggles still heating my face.
“Anyway,” he says, “I think it’s cool you look out for your siblings. I’m sure your folks appreciate it.”
I snort. My free-loving, pot-smoking parents couldn’t care less if I swear like a gangster. That’s probably why I play the role of housemother. When I’m home, I’m the cook and cleaner, the chauffeur to all after-school programs. I’m the responsible one. At home, I’ve got it together. In the real world, not so much. It’s one of the reasons taking off on this trip felt so good. Like I’m finally acting my age.
I release the seat belt, and it slithers into its home. I smooth the creases on my skirt. “My parents are…on the eccentric side. The not-swearing is my thing, not theirs.” I don’t know why I’m discussing my family. After the sexiness that happened earlier, I should be embarrassed and awkward around Sam, but something about him puts me at ease. And it’s nice to talk about them, instead of trying to avoid the subject as usual.
He shrugs. “Aren’t all parents weird? I think everyone goes through one of those my-parents-embarrass-the-shit-out-of-me phases. I know I did.” His voice drops an octave, his gaze turning out the window.
He seems weighted all of a sudden, heavy, our light conversation taking a different turn. The need to erase whatever is troubling him overtakes me. I don’t know much about Sam, but it’s clear he has a sense of humor. It’s likely the best way to get his attention away from whatever is weighing on him. “Sure, all parents are, like, parents, but do you know any who accidentally used their stash of weed instead of oregano when making spaghetti sauce for their kids?”
His head snaps to me, a wide grin softening his face. “You’re shitting me, right?”
“Messing with you? I would never. That’s the night I choreographed my infamous ‘Age of Aquarius’ number. I won a Tony the following year at our annual family award ceremony—lip-synching is a thing in my house. Still think I went through a typical my-parents-embarrass-the-you-know-out-of-me phase?” I can’t believe I admitted that. Sure, watching my siblings