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“Smith?”
“Uh.” I cringe, hating myself for bringing him into the conversation. “Yeah. Smith’s in my rideshare.”
“Your Smith?” Phoebe nearly chokes. “You’re in a van with your Smith?”
“He isn’t my Smith,” I hiss. “But yes, Smith Mackenzie is in my van.”
“I better cut Dad off now. When he finds out that Smith is in the same car with you, he’s going to lose it.”
A pit settles into my stomach. I’ve been so preoccupied with the chaos of being in a van with my ex-husband that I haven’t had a chance to consider the potential anarchy that will happen if my dad sees Smith and me together. The two of them were never exactly BFFs when Smith and I were a couple, and I may have made Smith look less than favorable—read: a complete asshole—when I told them about the divorce. My father is usually a Southern gentleman, but I have a feeling that chivalry doesn’t extend to ex-husbands. I think that’s what ass whoopings are typically reserved for down south.
“He’s not going to know.” I lower my voice. “You weren’t even supposed to know. Nobody has to know at all. OK?”
“If you say so.” Her voice is laced with intrigue. “I am curious, though.”
“About what?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“It’s just ... you know.” I can practically see the wry smile that matches mine taking shape on her face. “You’ve never really gotten over him.”
“That’s not true.” Heat rises across my skin. “Why would you say that? How could you possibly think that?”
“You just loved him so much. You’d talk about him for hours and go on and on about—”
The van makes an abrupt, sharp stop, jerking my body forward. My phone slips from my hands, and slides under the seat in front of me. I scramble to pick it up, my fingers fumbling over the screen, which is just out of reach.
“Sorry,” Aidan says between rapid breaths. “My foot slipped.”
“It’s fine, Aidan. Maybe you should put in—”
“And how great the sex was.” My sister’s voice blares from underneath the seat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I must’ve hit the damn speaker button. “I mean, he was never exactly my cup of tea for obvious reasons, but you worshipped his abs like some kind of—”
“Phoebe!” I shriek, shoving my face as far as it will go underneath the seat. “Stop talking!”
“Don’t get me wrong. Martin seems great, and while I don’t understand the appeal of a bulging—”
The van goes silent, and for a second, I wonder if it’s possible I have just died of humiliation. There’s a tap on my shoulder, which feels too informal a greeting for heaven or hell.
“It was a lot easier to get your phone from this side of the seat.” Smith’s lips are in a tight line that will likely break into a shit-eating grin at any moment. “I went ahead and hung up for you too.”
“Thanks,” I manage to squeak out. “I appreciate that.”
“Anything else I can do for you down there?”
“No. I’m going to take a couple of minutes and wait for a lightning bolt to put me out of my suffering.”
“The rubber in the tires might make that a hard wish to deliver. How about I go back up front and pretend I didn’t hear anything?”
“Sounds lovely.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you distracted Aidan from googling the odds of dying on a bridge in a hurricane.”
“We’re not in a hurricane,” I mumble.
“We could be!” Aidan shouts. “And let me tell you, the odds are not looking good, folks.”
