“Yep!” I spin on my heels and march back toward the counter.
What the hell did I just sign up for?
* * *
* * *
“You know we’re only gonna be gone for one night, right?”
Nick stares at my bags, which are in the (roomy, as Milo noted) back seat of his truck.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I only have two bags.”
Nick points to his bag, a small, nondescript black duffel. “How could you need more than that?”
I give him an incredulous look. “Um, I had to bring several dresses, because I don’t know what the weather’s going to be like in Indianapolis.”
Nick looks at the truck ceiling. “Chloe. Indianapolis isn’t going to have a vastly different climate from Columbus.”
“But I can’t predict the weather, Nicholas,” I say, and he shoots me a weary look. “And then I have various cardigans depending on which dress I wear, and they’re all different colors so different shoes are required, and then it’s like, no color of lipstick is going to go with all those outfits. I needed to bring options. Plus two books, because I don’t know what I’m going to want to read to help me fall asleep.”
Nick stares at me.
“Fine. Five books.”
“Is it exhausting being you?”
I sigh dramatically. “It is.”
“All right.” Nick starts the truck. “We’re off.”
“Oh wait! I forgot something!”
“You brought all your earthly possessions. Are you kidding me?”
I smile. “Yes. I’m kidding. Let’s motor, baby.”
Am I nervous about being hours away from my dad for most of a weekend? Of course. But Tracey reassured me, passionately and at length, that he would be fine for a couple of days. She reminded me that sometimes I go more than one day without visiting him and he manages, so what’s the difference?
I mean, the difference is that if something does go wrong, I won’t be able to be there within a few minutes, and I’ll blame myself for it for the rest of my natural life. But, you know, no bigs.
If I’m to believe Tracey, it will be good for me to take some time for myself. She might’ve even used the term self-care, which I always thought referred to drinking rosé while taking a bubble bath and wearing one of those paper face masks that make everyone look like a serial killer, but I guess in this instance it refers to going to a coffee convention with my boss.
Whatever. All I know is that I am pumped for this, and as I reach over to plug my phone in, I can feel the stress leaving my body, like it can’t sink its grubby little claws into me once we leave the Columbus city limits.
“What are you doing?” Nick asks, not taking his eyes off the road. He’s a responsible driver, I think as I stare at his hands, firmly placed at ten and two on the steering wheel. It’s a turn-on, in an authoritative, responsible adult kind of way.
I wave off his question. “Shush. How are we supposed to have a road trip with Father John Misty playing? Do you think I want to spend this drive thinking about the collapse of capitalism?”
Nick sighs.
“Let me . . . okay. Here we go,” I mutter, scrolling through my phone until I find my playlist. The opening notes of Hall and Oates’s “You Make My Dreams” fill the car.
With his eyes on the road, Nick calmly states, “I am going to grab your phone and throw it out the window if I have to listen to Hall and Oates all the way to Indianapolis.”
I let out a cackle as we keep on driving.
* * *
* * *
We get stuck in some nasty traffic and end up getting there later than we planned, and Nick doesn’t want to miss anything (he was being a real dad about this, talking a lot about “making good time” on the road), so we decide to check in at the hotel later tonight and go straight to the convention center now. As we get our name tags from an alarmingly perky young man (I assume he’s been sampling the coffee all morning), I’m struck by how huge this place is. I mean, it’s an entire convention center, filled with coffee shop owners, employees, distributors, and roasters.
“Oh shit,” I say as we step onto the convention floor and I flip through the schedule we received. “Are we gonna take this workshop on Espresso Machine Preventive Maintenance? It