Chapter 23
IS IT REALLY A ROAD TRIP IF ALL YOU DO IS SLEEP?
Oliver
I don’t know how I sleep as well as I do Sunday night, but I wake up Monday morning feeling like I have a hangover, yet also more fully awake and less stressed.
It’s odd.
Daphne’s clearly crawling out of her skin—she’s already showered and ready to go the minute I open my eyes, and room service lands with an impressive spread minutes later.
“Know what Aurora Gardens chain hotels don’t have? Hamburgers for breakfast. They’re so dumb,” Daphne says while she eats.
And there is indeed a hamburger on the tray, along with pancakes, a plate of pastries, scrambled eggs, fruit, coffee, orange juice, and a pastrami sandwich.
I have some of everything.
Sleeping made me hungry.
And I slept so late that it’s almost ten thirty before we hit the road, headed south.
Within half an hour—half an hour filled with an ungodly number of bugs hitting the windshield—I pull over and tell her to drive.
Most of the morning passes in a blur of me sleeping in the passenger seat, having dreams about dogs talking to each other.
She stops at some hamburger joint for lunch, more gas, and to clean the windshield—at a Miles2Go, naturally, where I sit in the car and watch the news talk about me on the little video screen on the pump. She grabs extra road food and drinks at the same time.
I pass out again as soon as she gets the car up to speed on the back country roads.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I’ll be awake to see the towns we’re driving through. We’re still in the eastern time zone, though. Too close to New York. It’s fine if I miss this part of the road trip.
Daphne goes through a Cod Pieces drive-thru when we’re about thirty minutes from tonight’s stop, and that pulls me out of my sleep again.
It’s possible the scent of fried fish is the only thing that would’ve done it.
Three empty MegaHit energy drinks are in the cupholders between and behind us, and she orders each of us a sweet tea to go with the fried fish.
“And extra hush puppies,” I insist.
She’s strangely quiet, to the point that I double-check that she didn’t change the destination on the GPS while I was sleeping.
She did not, and soon, she’s pulling up to the vacation rental house I booked for my second night of travel.
Pain in the ass to rent it, but I learned a lot about fake identities and prepaid credit cards while I was plotting my escape. Wish I’d booked all rental houses. This feels more secure than the hotel last night, though I’d prefer that the main house was farther away.
The listing made it sound as though there were several miles of rolling hills between the tiny house and the property’s primary family residence, but the main house is clearly in view across the rolling lawn, with several other neighborhood residences dotting the surrounding hills, all close enough that I could see if another person stepped out their doors or drove down their driveways.
Apparently I underestimated the size of five acres.
“Tell me you know the code to get in, or I’m peeing in the bushes,” Daphne says to me as she dances at the front door.
I move significantly slower with that greasy fish and french fries and the fried dough balls sitting heavily in my stomach for the second day in a row.
Worth it.
And disturbingly delicious.
I reach the door and pull out my burner phone—the one that only Archie has the number for—and pull up the email with the door code in it.
If Daphne wants to call me out for my electronics when I still won’t give her back her own phone, she doesn’t give any indication.
Possibly because as soon as I open the door, she dashes inside. “Bathroom, where are you?” she shouts.
I almost smile.
Maybe it’s the sleep and the fish—or maybe it’s gratitude that she was able to drive us today—but she’s growing on me as a travel companion.
“I’m sure it’s eager to answer you, as soon as the toilet learns how to talk,” I say.
She flips me off and dashes into a room behind the entrance door that honestly shouldn’t fit.
“Oh my god, the toilet is in the shower,” she says, the delight in her voice clearly coming through what is most definitely not a solid wood bathroom door.
Very, very not solid.
I can hear everything.
My stomach gurgles, heavy with the fish and chips and hush puppies, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
She might be growing on me, but not in every way.
“Should’ve stopped for the restroom at that last Quickie-Lickie,” she mutters as she attempts to set a record for the world’s longest piss. “I’m gonna get a kidney infection.”
“Unlikely from a single day of holding it,” I reply.
“Whoa. It’s like there’s a door, but there’s not, exactly like in the hotel. Is this a vacation rental, or did you buy the land and have this plopped down on the spot for the third night of your adventure?”
She’s still peeing.
Still peeing, and clearly waiting for an answer, and likely has a day’s worth of words bottled up because when I don’t reply immediately, she adds, “Oliver? You with me? Or did you pass out in a fish-induced coma?”
I take stock of the small house. My first impression is that the pictures did it too much justice. “Do you always have conversations while you’re impersonating a racehorse?”
“If someone’s around to listen, yeah. Pretty different from the urinal rules, am I right?”
“Are you baiting me on purpose?”
“No, more habit. I’m working on kicking that, but no promises it’ll happen fast. So. This place yours? If so, you definitely should upgrade the doors so that people who aren’t as comfortable with other people hearing them pee don’t have to.”
“If one’s here alone, it doesn’t matter if there’s a door at all.” I check the fridge and find an open carton of half-and-half, a partial stick of butter, and three cans of orange fizzy water.
“That’s a good point.”
She’s still peeing.
Or is she running the water in the sink and messing with me?
It’s Daphne, so—
So I don’t know.
I honestly don’t.
The Daphne I last saw five or six years ago? She’d be messing with me.
This Daphne?
I haven’t figured her out yet.
She pushes my buttons, but then she drives all day without complaint.
One minute, she’s telling me it’ll take me a while to fully adjust to life on my own—truly on my own—as if she understands me better than I understand myself, and the next, she’s bringing up Margot and demanding answers for why I hurt her sister four years ago.
She’s contradictions and controlled chaos, and I need to stay on my toes.
But I’m so damn tired.
Again.
I check the cabinets and locate the coffee maker that was promised in the rental listing and the packets of premeasured coffee, then turn my attention to the living area beyond the kitchen.
It’s a nook with a plain ivory couch adorned with throw pillows and blankets, plus a small bookshelf of—I tilt my head—romance novels. There’s also a loft that should have the bed in it above the couch.
“How many nights are we staying here?” Daphne asks.
And yes, she hasn’t stopped peeing.
She cannot possibly still be peeing.
This has to be her pranking me.
“Does it matter?” I ask back.
“Just getting a sense for what kind of road trip this is.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some road trips are about the journey, and others are about the destination.” She sighs, and the peeing stops. “So much better. So which is it? Journey or destination road trip?”
“Does it matter?” I ask again.
“It does if you’re going to need me to cover a lot of driving shifts again like today.
I learned the hard way that I can only survive on energy drinks for so long before I crash out, and I have too much to live for to crash out while on a road trip with you.
No offense. There are other people in my life that I’d like to see again. ”
The toilet flushes. I brace myself, fully expecting it to break or explode, but the only other sound I hear is sink water running.
“Oh shit, are you waiting to get in here? Sorry. I’ll hurry.”
That.
That part of her personality—the part where she’s considerate to other people’s needs—it’s new.
To me.
Margot always insisted Daphne was more misunderstood than self-centered, that she usually put other people’s needs before her own, but I didn’t see it.
Or possibly I didn’t want to see it.
The door swings open and Daphne grins at me. “All yours, Jeeves.”
“Jeeves?”
“You didn’t like Captain or Skipper yesterday. Jeeves is a good chauffeur name though, don’t you think?”
She is definitely fucking with me on purpose now.
After today, I should be calling her Jeeves.
“We’re not too far from town,” she says. “Do you have a credit card loaded to your phone? We could order dinner for delivery. Unless—”
My stomach announces its current preoccupation with digesting the fish, and Daphne grins wider.
“Yeah, thought so. Don’t worry. The discomfort passes way quicker than you think it will.”
“I’m fine.”
“Lot of hurried late-night fast-food meals the past few years?”
Of course not, and she knows it.
I had a lot of late-night meals planned and delivered by a private chef that I could hardly afford.
It’s remarkable how pinched you can feel while having billions in holdings when you know your every financial move is being watched by someone waiting for you to screw up.
Selling any part of my portfolio would’ve been seen as a signal that M2G’s financial crisis was getting worse, and taking anything beyond the barest salary would’ve been seen as out-of-touch and selfish.
Or possibly I was over-paranoid.
Overworked, over-stressed, over-paranoid.
Daphne waves a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Oliver. You okay, bud?”
I scowl at her. “Can you not talk for a while?”
She’s still smiling. “Unlikely, but I can try. It was a long day of not talking. Sometimes I need to get all of my words out, and I haven’t yet.”
“You’re sleeping on the couch.”
“Again? That’s…weirdly poetic.”
I squint at her.
“I’ve had a couch crasher myself all summer. He’ll be thrilled to hear I got a taste of my own medicine two nights in a row.”
Of course she’s had a couch crasher.
She smirks. “Not what you think, but I don’t care if you think what you’re thinking.”
“And what am I thinking?”
“That I’m an irresponsible party girl who’s had a crappy rock band camping out—huh. Actually—no, never mind. I can absolutely frame this in my mind so that it’s exactly what you’re thinking. Ooh, look. Scrabble. We could play a game.”
I don’t have to use the bathroom, but I stride into it anyway and shut the door.
“I’m gonna go grab a few things from the car,” Daphne says. “You need anything from out there?”
“No.” I scowl again, this time to myself, then add, “Thank you.”
“No problem, big guy.”
The door shuts, and I heave a whole-body sigh and let my shoulders sag.
She’s right.
The toilet’s in the shower.
I do business that I don’t need to do and am checking out the bed when she gets back.
You’d think that sleeping basically the entire day in the car would’ve helped with some of the bone-deep exhaustion, but as soon as I’m flat on the bed, instinct takes over and everything inside me starts to relax.
I barely manage to pull my phone out of my pocket long enough to text Archie. Made it to N3. Much obliged for your assistance. The problem we discussed yesterday is still present but unexpectedly clearing itself up in odd ways. Situation remains fine. For now.
I shut the phone back off and shove it into the pocket of my new jeans, then roll over onto my stomach, my limbs and head getting heavier.
Daphne pokes her head up over the side of the bed from the stairs. “Seriously? Again? Are you sick? Are you contagious? Or do you look like you’re seventy-five because you need to catch up on a few years’ worth of sleep?”
“Couch,” I order.
“You out for the night?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m gonna turn on the TV. Let me know if it’s too much noise, and I’ll shut it off.”
I squint at her.
“I’ve had roommates, my dude, and I’ve learned the art of living with another person.”
“You didn’t act like it last night.”
She smiles. “When I talked in my sleep, when I turned the TV back on after I thought you were asleep, or when I annoyed you by dropping Lava Cheese Puff dust on your bed?”
I don’t stop squinting at her, even though my brain is telling me it’s time to shut up and go to sleep, because she’ll keep talking as long as I let her.
I like her hair.
It’s fun.
She’s fun.
That’s what’s different.
Me.
I’m different.
I want fun.
I want Daphne to teach me how to have fun.
Maybe not put streaks in my hair, but they work on her.
Wait.
Wait.
I had this realization already. Yesterday.
If I’m having it two days in a row—fuck.
Fucking dammit.
We agreed on three nights, but I’ve slept one of the days completely away, and yesterday was…something.
I need to convince her to stick with me longer.
“I don’t like how you’re staring at me,” she whispers.
For one split second, I picture myself pulling her into the bed with me.
Asking her to teach me to have fun.
Holding her hips.
Studying her breasts.
Showing me how to completely let loose and destroy this bed in ways that’ll make it necessary for me to pay for damages here.
I wonder if she tastes like those gummy bears she was eating in the car yesterday.
Sweet.
Maybe cherry-flavored. Maybe lime.
Maybe—
No.
No, no, no.
Maybe nothing.
I’m disappearing. Starting a new life. Taking on a whole new identity, with nothing from my past to draw me back.
Especially my ex-fiancée’s unpredictable, chaotic little sister.
Who is not attractive.
She’s trouble.
And shouldn’t I experience trouble? Especially fun trouble?
I lift my groggy head and turn it so I’m facing the other wall, ordering my brain to get a handle on itself. “Go away, Daphne.”
She doesn’t answer.
But I swear she stays there staring at me long after I should be asleep.
I can feel it.
And when I start to think I’m being paranoid, that of course she’s not staring at me and my overactive imagination is fucking with me because of how close I am to freedom and also how far away it feels at the same time—that’s when I hear the ladder creak.
“Sleep well, Oliver,” she whispers. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
My brain betrays me again, this time with a memory of her crawling into the back seat of the Camry in that short dress yesterday morning, showing ass cheek—all of her ass cheeks, in fact—and now I have a goddamn boner.
Over Daphne.
I’d punch the pillows and roll around, except she’d hear me.
And offer to help put you to sleep, some moronic asshole in my head suggests.
Forget three days.
I’ll find someone else to teach me how to have fun, and I’ll send her home tomorrow.