Page 42 of Unmanageable

“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.

11

Scottie Elise Reed

7:32 PM

Dean: You still alive?

Me: Barely.

Dean: Cash?

Me: Unfortunately.

***

The Goalie-Mobile is making a sound like a bag of wrenches in a dryer, and I am leaning halfway out the window just to feel the rush of the wind against my face.

I pull my head back inside, my hair a wind-whipped, tangled mess.

I don’t care.