Chapter Nine - Becca
CHAPTER NINE
Despite my best efforts not to let it bother me, my entire body is tense, and I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles ache in protest.
I want to open my mouth and let out all the frustration that’s brewing within me like a summer storm, but the guy sitting next to me is reason enough to keep it all inside.
Lucky has his earbuds in which, thankfully, spares me from having to make small talk.
At the same time, the semi-awkward silence that has filled the car only gives me more time to think about the things I don’t want to think about—like the email from the water company that I opened back at the gas station.
About an hour ago, I started counting the mile markers in the hope that it would distract me, but despite every passing sign, I can’t seem to turn my brain off.
I should be used to it by now, but all I can see are those two words printed in thick, menacing block letters: PAST DUE.
I’m not sure whose idea it was to use all caps on overdue notices, but it feels like the words are screaming at me.
I chew on the inside of my bottom lip. The money for the water bill was in my mom’s bank account. I know for a fact because I’m the one who deposited it and set up the automatic payment. If the bill is past due, then there’s only one explanation.
My mother’s sallow features and her glazed eyes flash in my thoughts, and I swallow against the ache in my throat.
Another image floats to the front of my mind. The memory of my mom and eight-year-old-me in the bathroom, an eye lash curler in one hand and a mascara wand in the other. Her sweet smile and my wide eyes as she hands me the mascara and guides my hands into smooth even strokes across my eyelashes.
I blink and the memory is gone.
My heart races, and I swallow again, focusing on taking a few deep breaths. I will not allow myself to cry, to come undone. Not here and not now.
I unclench my fingers from around the wheel and flex them. My snacks from the gas station are uneaten in the backseat and my poor Slurpee sits, melted and dripping, in the cup holder. I reach for it and take a sip, grimacing at the overly sweet, watered-down flavor.
Lucky hasn’t said much since we left the gas station a few hours ago. I’ve never had much of a poker face when it comes to how I feel, and despite trying not to let it show, he must have picked up on the vibe I was putting out.
Surprisingly enough though, he hasn’t made a single joke or sarcastic comment since we left the gas station.
On one hand, this impresses me, but on the other, I find the silence a little too .
. . silent. I keep hoping he’ll open his mouth and say something moronic that will make me laugh or at least roll my eyes.
No such luck.
It’s an eight hour drive from San Antonio to our next destination in Roswell, New Mexico, and we’ve been in the car for a little over four hours.
We should be halfway there by now, but the stupid Geo Metro can’t handle speeds over 65.
If I even attempt to push her past that, the entire car starts shaking like it’s about to explode.
So, we’re stuck in the right lane, cruising at a miserable 60 miles an hour, while the rest of traffic flies by us on the left.
My back and my neck hurt from being in the car for so long, and even my legs are stiff from having to do all the driving—the Metro doesn’t have cruise control. Because, of course, it doesn’t.
I keep my eyes peeled for a place to stop, but this particular stretch of the drive has been pretty barren so far.
“I hate this stupid car,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?” Lucky looks up from his laptop, pulling his earbuds out so he can hear me.
“I said, I hate this stupid car.” I slap the wheel for emphasis, but the Metro only grunts in response, the engine sputtering as if it were yelling at me.
“Easy now.” Lucky reaches out and strokes the dashboard, a half-smile on his face. “What did old Tallulah ever do to you?”
The name catches me off guard, and I laugh in spite of myself. “Tallulah? That’s what you’ve settled on now?”
He gives a little shrug. “I mean, I’m not sold on it, just taking it for a test drive. But now that I’ve said it out loud, I’m thinking it doesn’t quite suit her, does it?”
He smiles, and surprisingly it eases some of the tension in my shoulders.
“No, not really. Gotta go back to the drawing board on that one.” I’m relieved that the silence between us is broken. “How much farther is it until we get there?”
Lucky checks the GPS on his phone and grimaces. “Looks like we’ve got a few more hours till we hit Roswell.”
I groan. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
My stomach, which has been rumbling uncomfortably for a while now, chooses this moment to make its complaints more audible.
“Was that your stomach?” Lucky asks, his eyes wide with amusement.
“Yeah, I didn’t really eat my snacks from earlier.”
“Do you want to stop and grab some dinner somewhere?”
“I could definitely eat.”
Lucky chuckles. “So I heard.”
We end up stopping at a little 50s-themed mom and pop diner right off the highway.
The waitresses behind the wide counter are wearing poodle skirts and fluffy, chiffon scarves around their necks.
The booths are red and the floor is black and white checkered tile.
There’s even an old jukebox in the corner.
It’s a cheerful little place and the smell of grilled burgers and fried onion rings makes my mouth water.
We settle into a corner booth and scan the menu while we wait for our drinks: a chocolate malt shake for Lucky and a cherry cola for me.
Lucky places his phone on the table and slides it towards me. The video he’s created for us is queued up and ready to go. “For your approval,” he says with a small smile. “Rule number one.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the only rule we got around to making,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I press play. The video features clips from both of our points of view, starting with each of us at Buzz Con, our reactions to the announcements, the first challenge, and our road trip thus far.
His editing style is different from mine, a bit rougher and more chaotic, but it all really works together.
He’s layered a bunch of funny captions across the images and the music underneath is fun and punchy.
The video ends with a graphic reminding viewers to head over to the Starlight website to vote for us.
“I think it looks really good,” I say, when the video has finished playing. “You have my approval.”
“Awesome,” Lucky says, pulling the phone back over to his side of the table.
“We should probably keep tabs on the other teams, too,” Lucky says, fiddling with the video settings.
“See what we’re up against. A good competitor always keeps track of what his opponent is doing.
And since the popular vote is a big part of this competition, we want to make sure we’re giving the people what they want. ”
“Right,” I say. “That’s a good idea. That way we know if we need to kick it up a notch or not.”
I study Lucky’s face as he peers down at the phone screen.
I had him pegged as a complete goofball, someone who wasn’t reliable and who didn’t take things seriously.
Yet, the longer we spend together, the more I realize I’ve gotten him completely wrong.
The detail he’s put into our video is further proof.
He told me that he was here to win the competition, and now, sitting across from him in this booth, I believe him.
“There,” he says. “Just have to add the caption and it should be good to go.”
Spotting our waitress, he pushes his phone over to the side and out of the way of our food. We both dig in, silence settling over us as we chew.
My phone begins to ding as a series of new text messages starts to roll in. I don’t even have to look at the screen to know who it is. I snatch my phone off the table and flip the ringer over to silent, though it still buzzes from the vibrations.
I put the phone down on the seat beside me and go back to my burger, though my appetite isn’t as ravenous as it was before.
“Everything okay?” Lucky asks after taking a large swig of his shake.
“Everything’s fine,” I answer, though the buzzing of my phone says otherwise. “It’s just my mom.”
“Do you need to get that?” He raises a brow at me, his eyes flicking down to where my phone rests on the seat.
“Nope. I’ll call her later.” My tone is flat, even to my ears.
“You sure?” Lucky’s face is all serious lines.
He doesn’t say it in a way that makes me believe he’s judging me though. If anything, it’s friendly . . . concerned even.
For a split second, I find myself wanting to tell him, to actually talk about it for once, but I shake my head. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Lucky nods. “Okay, but just so you know, I’m an excellent listener. If you ever need one.” He picks up his burger and takes a bite.
“Off the record?” I finally ask, cracking a small smile.
“Completely.” He holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
His smile is wide and toothy. It makes my own widen. I’m not planning on spilling my family baggage to Lucky DeLucca over greasy cheeseburgers, but it’s nice to know that the offer is there.
“Scout’s honor, huh? You some kind of a Boy Scout?”
“Well, yes ma’am, I am,” Lucky says, shaking an unruly piece of hair out his eye. His Southern accent is more than adorable. “Eagle Scout actually.”
“Really? Isn’t that like a really big deal?”
“I’m already a pretty big deal in case you didn’t know.” He waggles his eyebrows.
I snort and dive back into my burger; the text messages momentarily forgotten and my appetite returned.
Just as we’re finishing dinner, Lucky whips up a caption and makes sure everything is all set to go. Then he angles the screen to give me a better view. “What do you think?”
“Looks great. Post it.”
He grins and makes the video live for the public. “Now, we sit back and wait.”
Almost immediately, notifications start popping up on both our phones.
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