10. Scottie Elise Reed #2
“Scenic routes are for people with toddlers and beige minivans,” Cash says, effortlessly guiding the bus into the left lane. “We’re in the Goalie-Mobile. We take the high road. The fast road to Philly.”
“The road that leads to a ditch,” I correct him. “How are we even still moving? This van sounds like it’s dying a slow, painful death.”
“She’s got heart, Sharky. Unlike some people who prioritize thirty-page PDFs over the soul of the open road.”
I sink back into my seat. “I like my PDF. It was organized. It didn’t involve an orange dashboard or the constant risk of mechanical failure.”
“You love this van. Don’t lie to me. I see you patting the dashboard when you think I’m not looking.”
“I am not patting it, I’m trying to keep it from vibrating into pieces,” I say. “It’s a safety hazard. It’s an eyesore. It’s… it’s orange.”
“It’s your favorite color.”
“It is not my favorite color.”
“Every time we go to a gala, you pick the orange flowers. You have an orange highlighter that you use only for ‘critical’ tasks. And you’re currently wearing orange-tinted sunglasses.”
I snatch the glasses off my face, affronted. “These are rose-gold!”
“They’re orange, Scottie. Own your truth.”
He reaches over, his hand lingering near my knee for a second before he grabs a bag of pretzels. The briefest touch sends a jolt through me that I frantically try to suppress by aggressively folding the map.
“You’re doing the thing again,” he says, popping a pretzel into his mouth.
“What thing?”
“The shark thing. You’re over-folding. You’re going to turn that map into a piece of origami if you don’t relax.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “Talk to me. No business. Just talk.”
“About what?”
“About why you’re so scared of a little chaos. We’re driving to Philly, and no one knows where we are. Doesn’t that feel… good?”
I look at him. His hair is a disaster from the wind, his shirt is wrinkled, and he looks more like himself than I’ve ever seen him. The mask he wears for the press is gone.
“It feels like I’m losing my grip on reality.”
“Good. Reality is overrated. It’s mostly just bills and people telling you you’re too old to play a game for a living.”
He hits a bump, and the van lurches. I’m thrown toward him, my shoulder hitting his arm.
“Cash?”
“Yeah?”
“If we get stranded during this five-hour marathon, I’m eating you first.”
He laughs, a deep, rich sound that vibrates through the entire cabin. “Fair enough. I’m mostly muscle. Probably be a bit chewy.”
***
The sun is starting to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the road that match the van perfectly.
I hate the noise. I hate the wind. But as I watch Cash sing along to a song he doesn’t know the lyrics to, I realize I’ve never felt more alive.
“Next game!” Cash shouts, hitting the dashboard again. “I Spy. I’ll start. I spy with my little eye… something that is orange and currently trying not to laugh at me.”
“I hate you.”
“Ha!” he says, grinning. “Direct hit on the Shark.”
“I spy something… beige,” I say, staring out at the endless expanse of dry grass along the highway.
“The ground,” Cash says instantly.
“No.”
“That rock?”
“No.”
“The dust on the dashboard?”
“No.”
“Scottie, everything in this part of the state is beige. Be more specific.”
“I won’t. That’s the game.”
“That’s not the game, that’s just you being difficult.” He reaches over and playfully pokes my ribs.
“Don’t touch the agent!” I squeal, swatting his hand away. “Assault! I’ll sue!”
“Good. I’ll hire you to defend me.”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
“I have an orange van and half a bag of pretzels. I’m a high roller.”
I look at him, and for a second, the banter dies down. The light is turning golden, hitting the side of his face in a way that makes my chest tighten, making it hard to find my next words.
He looks at me, and his smile fades into something softer, something more honest.
“You’re okay, Scottie,” he says, his voice low.
“I know I am.”
“No. I mean… you’re okay. Even without the plan. Even when you’re not the one in charge.”
I look back at the map, my heart racing, pretending to study a town I’ve never heard of. “Just drive, O’Connell.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
He reaches over to adjust the radio, but before his hand hits the dial, he swerves the Goalie-Mobile into the gravel lot of a sun-bleached gas station that looks like it hasn’t been updated since… well… ever.
“What are we doing?” I ask, bracing my hand against the dashboard as the van rattles to a halt.
“Living on the edge,” he says, killing the engine. It gives one final, dramatic shudder before going quiet. “Come on.”
I follow him inside, the scent of stale coffee and gasoline hitting me instantly.
Cash bypasses the snack aisle entirely and stops in front of a squeaking, wire rack loaded with faded, slightly curled postcards. He spins it once, his eyes scanning the cheesy retro fonts and aggressive pictures of local water towers.
“We need a system,” Cash declares. “A road trip tradition.”
“A system?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you hated my thirty-page PDFs. And why postcards? What is the actual point of this?”
Cash stops spinning the rack, his expression turning oddly thoughtful. “Because somehow, Scottie-girl, I think we’re going to want to remember this road trip to Philadelphia. Every single piece of it. Even the parts where you’re trying to murder me for my music choices.”
I let out a small, breathless laugh, shaking my head.
“Okay,” I say. “You only live once, right?”
“That’s the spirit, Sharky,” he grins, the light in his eyes making me feel like I’m the only person in the world.
“Here’s the deal. Every state line we cross, every weird rink we hit, we buy a postcard.
We write a note on the back. A real one.
No holding back, no agent-goalie filter. Just what we’re actually thinking.”
“And then we read them at the next stop?”
“No,” Cash says, his gaze locking with mine. “We keep them strictly hidden from each other. No peeping. We seal them safely in an envelope, and we don’t open it until the very end of the trip.”
He’s offering me a piece of the structure I so desperately crave, but wrapped in the exact kind of emotional vulnerability I’ve spent years running away from.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
“Fine,” I whisper, reaching out and taking the sunset postcard from his fingers. “But if you read mine early, I’m changing the lock on the Goalie-Mobile.”
“Deal,” he grins, tossing a couple of crumpled dollar bills onto the counter for the cashier, his eyes never leaving mine.