Chapter 10
ten
Rowan
I’m not really a research kind of guy, but I’ve had to be resourceful a lot of times in my life, so this whole trying-to-get-us-home thing has become a quest I need to conquer.
As we all stand outside at the bus station, my thumbs move across the screen of my phone. Tweetie clogging the toilet took the bus out of commission and they’re trying to get a new one here, but that doesn’t work for us if we’re going to beat the team plane home.
“Found a rental car place that’s open, but we have to get an Uber first.”
“Fuck, it’s cold,” Conor complains, putting his arms around himself.
“Where’s your coat?” Henry asks him.
“I didn’t think I was going to need it, so it’s in my suitcase that’s probably somewhere in Boston, waiting to be put on a plane.”
None of us is dressed for this weather, even though we were in Boston, because we live a posh life where we go from one heated vehicle to a heated hotel room, plane, or arena.
“Uber will be here in ten, and it will be about a twenty-minute ride to the car rental place. After that, we’ll switch out drivers until we get there.”
Tweetie looks at his watch. “Man, it’s already four in the morning. I’m dead on my feet.”
“Get a coffee. We’re in this mess because of you, so you’re the first driver,” I tell him.
Tweetie flips me off, but we all know that he knows I’m right and he’s going to be the first driver while the rest of us sleep.
While we wait for the Uber, we all go over our brief phone conversations with our wives.
“Fucking Colts were with them tonight,” Conor says.
“Jade said Hayes is a charmer.” Henry shakes his head, blowing into his hands to warm them.
“Hayes saw my wife’s tits.” All of our jaws fall open before Tweetie continues. “She was pumping in Ruby’s office, and the asshole opened the door.”
“Then I wouldn’t say he really saw. I mean, those contraptions hide a lot,” I say.
I’m trying to appease him, but yeah—I’d be pissed too. I’m sure Hayes is going to hear from Tweetie.
A minivan pulls up along the curb with a stuffed reindeer nose and antlers on the grill. A sign on the side of the van reads GrannyGo, and I think I see Christmas lights on the inside. We all look at one another, and I double-check that the license plate is right.
I open the passenger door. “Mabel?”
“Rowan?” she says back.
“That’s us.”
She presses a button, and the back doors slide open on both sides. Her hair is a short bob—I’m not sure if it’s blonde or gray or a mixture of both—and she’s wearing a purple velvet tracksuit.
“Thanks, Mabel,” I say.
Tweetie and Conor argue about going in the back, but eventually they both go into the back row, while Henry and I sit in the second row.
“So, you’re going to Wheely Good Rentals?” she asks, pressing something on her GPS.
“Yup.” I click my seat belt—I think I’m going to need it.
“That’s the rental place?” Henry asks me, his eyebrows quirked.
“I didn’t see you looking.” I ignore his skepticism.
Mabel switches on her turn signal to move away from the curb.
“Mabel, the doors are still open.” I give Henry a wide-eyed look.
“Oh shoot. I’m always forgetting to close them.” She hits a button, and they slide closed. Then, inch by inch, she barely accelerates as she moves away from the bus terminal. “Where are you boys from?”
“Chicago,” Henry answers for all of us.
“Hey, Mabel, it’s kind of late to be driving an Uber, no?” Conor asks from the backseat.
Tweetie tosses a twenty between Henry and me. “Hey, grab me a package of those cookies. Are they homemade, Mabel?”
I pick the bill up and toss it back to him.
Mabel’s got a whole basket strapped to the center console with Ziploc sandwich bags of sweets—brownies, cookies, popcorn. All decorated with red or green frosting or sprinkles. None of it is in a sealed package.
“Slow down, boys, one question at a time.” She glances at Conor in the rearview mirror, sitting at a light that I think we can turn on red at.
She places her hands in her lap, so I guess we’re not going anywhere.
“It’s not late, it’s early. I wake up at three every morning.
Do my stretching and then go out to pick up rides. ”
“You don’t find it dangerous?” Conor continues, and Tweetie gets annoyed.
“You’ll have to remember that question because it’s your friend’s turn.” Her eyes shift to Tweetie. “Yes, they are homemade. We all get together and swap our treats, so you get a variety.”
They all? There’s more than just Mabel?
“But my speciality are the sugar cookies.”
“Oh, that sounds good.” Tweetie gets up and reaches between Henry and me, trying to place the twenty in her money container made out of a leftover container with a slot through the plastic lid.
Henry pushes him back. “You’ve eaten enough.”
“Now now, boys, that’s not nice. He’s a growing boy.”
Henry and I exchange a look.
“Hey, Mabel, the light is green now.” I inch forward in my seat, anxious to get this thing moving.
Her hands slowly go to the steering wheel and turn with the perfect hand-over-hand technique as though she were taking her driver’s test.
Tweetie keeps tapping Henry on the shoulder with his twenty-dollar bill.
We finally get on the highway, and I follow on my own GPS to see how close we are to the destination, but since we only travel in the right lane as every tractor trailer passes us, it’s like we’re barely moving.
We learn that Mabel used to be a teacher. She’s a widow and has one daughter. She asks us if we’re single, to which we inform her we are all very much taken.
“I’ve got a baseball player if she’s interested,” Tweetie says. “Likes to walk in rooms unannounced.”
Henry grows tired of Tweetie’s pestering and takes the twenty from him, putting it in the plastic container and tossing him a bag of cookies, which finally shuts him up.
An alarm on Mabel’s phone goes off when we’re about ten minutes away from the rental shop. Mabel pulls over to the side of the road, and the tires slide on the snow a little before she comes to a stop. I want to message Kyleigh and tell her I love her and Parker if I don’t make it home.
“Is there a problem?” Henry asks, leaning between the opening of the seats to address her.
“I just have to take my pill. Give me a minute.”
Conor grunts behind me.
“Oh dear,” she says, reaching into a bag in the front seat. “I forgot my water.” She puts her seat belt back on and clicks on her turn signal. “Sorry, boys, I just have to stop at the gas station and get some water. I’ll be quick.”
“We’re in kind of a hurry.” I turn to the guys. “Do any of you have a water with you?”
“No, Magic, I don’t have a water bottle, because I’m not eight years old and going to school,” Conor grumbles.
“Well, if I don’t take my meds, you will get there much later.” Mabel lets loose a throaty chuckle.
Henry’s eyes widen since we have no idea what the meds are for. Having no choice but to be okay with it, we wait for her to ease back on the highway, and we all look over our shoulders to make sure it’s clear. She gets off at the next exit and pulls into a gas station.
I open the door. “I’ll get the water. Any certain kind?”
She waves me off and points at another minivan a few spots over. “Nonsense, Glady is here.” She climbs out of the van, and we all watch her.
“She bedazzled it,” Tweetie says, sounding impressed by the silver bling that reads GrannyGo shining on the back of her velvet track suit.
Sure enough, the minivan Mabel is walking toward also has a sign on the side saying GrannyGo.
“It’s a granny gang,” Conor says.
“Oh cute—Glady has a velvet tracksuit too.” Tweetie points at a woman with red-dyed hair cut short walking into the gas station. “Do you think she has different treats in her van?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have a tapeworm?” Conor asks, getting pissy.
“You need to eat. Want a cookie?” Tweetie holds one out.
Conor narrows his eyes for a second before snatching it out of Tweetie’s hand.
“They’re going to the coffee area.” Henry rolls his eyes at me.
We wait for what seems like an hour for her to return with her water. In the meantime, Conor’s actually dozed off, which is good for his cranky ass, and Tweetie has put, no exaggeration, a hundred dollars in the food bin and eaten almost every sweet.
“Now you’re going to have a sugar crash. That should be fun,” Henry says.
Mabel gets back in the van. “Glady is having a slow morning.” She looks at the snack basket. “Oh, you boys were hungry. I can go grab some more from Glady.” She reaches for the door handle.
“Oh no, we’re stuffed full. We just really need to get to the car rental place.” There’s a pleading note in my tone that I can’t hide anymore.
“Of course, sweetie, let’s get you there.”
I relax in my seat, but my leg bounces the entire time.
After what feels like a four-hour trip, we finally pull into the car rental place.
I pay on my app, adding a nice tip to keep this poor woman off the road at four in the morning—although I don’t think she’s doing it for the money.
Henry, Tweetie, and Conor each tip her as well.
“You boys are sweet. Have a safe trip to Chicago. I’d drive you that far if poor Merv wasn’t waiting for me at home.”
“Dog or cat?” Tweetie asks.
“Dog. Want to see a picture?” She reaches for her phone.
I let them do whatever they’re going to do and rush into the rental place.
“Hi, Rowan Landry here to pick up the car you said was available.”
The attendant, who looks as though he just returned from smoking pot in the back, has a confused look on his face. My stomach sinks.
“Rowan what a—what?”
“Landry,” I say slowly.
He looks at a piece of paper. “Oh, you were just here. Something wrong with the car?”
I blink at him. “I wasn’t just here. I just walked in. Tell me you have a car for me.”
He looks at a wall that should have keys on it, but there are none. “Nah, man, I’m out of cars. This guy just came in and took the last one.” He thumbs through some papers. “Landry. That wasn’t you?”
“You have to be fucking kidding me!” Conor shouts from behind me.
Tweetie tugs Conor out of the building.
I rest my forearms on the counter. “Okay, listen, I am Rowan Landry, and I didn’t just come in moments ago and rent a car, so where is the car you promised me on the phone?”
He looks at the board again and shrugs. “Sorry, man. I got nothing.”
“So what do you suggest we do?” I glance at his nametag. “Larry.”
He glances at his nametag and laughs. I assume Larry isn’t his name. “There’s a train station across the street. Or I can call GrannyGo for you. They’re some really nice ladies. Have these killer cookies.”
Henry clears his throat and pulls out his phone. “There’s a train going that way that should be stopping in half an hour.”
“Sorry, guys,” Larry—or whatever his name is—says as we walk out of the rental place.
We both flip him off.
“Not cool, guys. Not cool at all,” not-Larry calls.
We tell Conor and Tweetie the plan, and the four of us walk across the street to the train station. Maybe third time is a charm.