Page 64 of Hot Dad Summer

“What are you doing here?” I hiccupped.

“Delivering takeout. I lost my rideshare account.” He waved a hand. “Allegations. I don’t want to get into it.”

I ripped the passenger door open and threw myself in. The whole car smelled like somebody else’s dinner.

“Whoa, whoa. I don’t do rideshare anymore, D. This is a food-service vehicle. There are regulations.”

“Drive. Drive, drive, drive!”

He drove. Then he glanced over at me with his gas station sunglasses and nodded slowly. “Damn, D. I knew we had a connection, but you gotta play it cooler than this.”

“No we don’t. You’re only eighteen and I will pay you in gas money.”

“Eighteen and a half,” he said, wounded, and that was when my ugly cry really arrived. My whole chest heaved, the kind of crying I’d be embarrassed about later. To his eternal credit, Rat just drove and let it happen, one hand on the wheel, nodding along like I was a song on the radio.

Somewhere between the marina and town I got the whole story out in pieces. Tyler. Brooke. The kitchen. The dock. All of it. Rat received this with the serenity of a monk who was also slightly high.

“So let me get this straight. You came up here for one brother, and you ended up with the other three.” He whistled. “Damn, D. Good for you. That’s a hall of fame summer. Miss D got her triple D!”

“Rat.”

“I’m serious. I’m proud of you. When I met you, you cried on a couch because of one mediocre guy. Look at you now. Crying in my smart car because of three quality ones. That’s growth.”

I laughed, which came out as a horrible wet honk, and then I found a paper bag by my feet and started stress-eating somebody’s egg rolls straight out of it.

“Those are Mrs. Kowalski’s,” Rat said, looking concerned.

“I’ll pay for them.”

“You better.” He reached into the console and produced a small baggie. “You want an edible? You seem like you need one. Friends and family discount.”

“Rat. The last time I ate one of your edibles, I said yes to a nanny job and ended up sleeping with my ex’s three brothers.”

He considered that. “That’s fair. My cookies have a legacy.” He put the baggie away. “So where are we going?”

“Just drive.”

He drove. The lake went by on one side and the pines on the other, and for a mile or so neither of us said anything, and then Rat asked the question I wasn’t ready to hear yet.

“Do you actually think your man’s into your sister?”

“No.”

The truth came out instantly. I heard myself say it and then I sat there holding Mrs. Kowalski’s second egg roll, stunned by my own mouth.

“Okay.” Rat nodded. “So why are we driving?”

“Because I...” I looked out the window. “Because I needed to run somewhere while my body caught up with my head.”

“Cool, cool.” He flipped his blinker on for no reason and turned it back off. “So this is like a feelings lap.”

A feelings lap. Eighteen and a half years old, gas station sunglasses, car full of lo mein and pot cookies, and he’d just become my best therapist. I wasn’t running from the truth. I was doing a lap while the truth parked itself.

That was when the trucks showed up revving behind us.

Flynn’s appeared in the side mirror first, coming fast, and then Wes’s behind it with Max riding shotgun, and Rat looked in the rearview and made a sound like a teakettle.

“D. D, we’re being followed. I did not sign up to be a getaway driver. My insurance situation is complicated.”