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Penny: Mercury is so rude.
Chelsey: You’ve got this.
Jackie: There’s a new moon in two nights.
Chelsey: That’s a good sign!
Penny: Maybe. I’ll keep you guys posted.
I scarf down a few bites of pizza as I look at the rideshare app on my phone. As expected, the holiday means fewer drivers—the number of which allow pets is already minimal—and more passengers. I plug in my parents’ address on Coronado Island and watch as a little car widget dances across my phone screen promising that it’s looking for a match that will offer a speedy and friendly drive. I pour a little of my bottled water into Ozzie’s travel bowl and polish off the crust of my pizza. No Rides Found flashes across my phone screen.
“Please consider editing your preferences to increase your chances of finding a friendly Dryver near you,” I mumble to myself as I scroll through the list of preferences. “Smoking is out of the question. Right, Ozzie?”
Ozzie actually likes the way gross stuff smells, as is evidenced by the way he greets new friends at the dog park. My mother, on the other hand, has a nose that could rival a dog trained to sniff out drugs and illegally transported fruit at border checkpoints. If I show up smelling like cigarettes, she won’t let me in the house without first squirting me down with a hose. I decide that smoking is nonnegotiable, which leaves only one other possible option to yield different search results. The more the merrier!
Shit.
People. Strangers to be exact. Strangers like to make small talk, and if Karl has taught me anything, it’s that casual conversation isn’t my strong suit. Suddenly, secondhand smoke doesn’t sound so bad. Unfortunately, my mom would probably burn my clothes, leaving me with only my old prom dresses hanging in my closet to wear. I can’t spend the next three days dressed in floor-length ball gowns in hideous shades of aqua and pink.
“Fine,” I say to no one as I push the silly button that looks like a tiny stick figure orgy. “The more the freaking merrier.”
I wait as the little car widget spins and spins. So help me, if this doesn’t yield any results, I’ll be forced to take the bus, which on the unpleasantness meter is somewhere between pubic lice and talking to my father for an entire car ride without a drink.
“Your friendly Dryver will be at your location in three minutes,” my phone announces robotically.
Three minutes? Geez! It’s going to take me twice as many minutes just to get all my stuff together.
I force Ozzie back into his crate and am met with one of his old-man growls. I apologize as I plop my luggage on top of his crate and start booking it toward the ground transportation pickup terminal. Running is the sort of thing I don’t enjoy, for two reasons. One, it’s running, and two, it’s not walking.
“Your friendly Dryver is approaching,” says my phone. “Please be ready at the designated Dryver pickup location.”
“That’s the fastest three minutes I’ve ever seen,” I mutter under my breath.
The sliding terminal doors are in sight when I realize I’m not sure what the car that is picking me up looks like. I struggle to keep one eye on my phone and one on the sea of people in front of me. A beige minivan. Oh, lovely. Room for an entire polka band from Sheboygan. I spot the van as soon as I’m outside.
“Penelope Banks?” the driver asks. He looks younger than the majority of my lingerie collection, which is concerning for multiple reasons. “Traveling to Coronado Island?”
“That’s me,” I say. “Should I put my bag in the back or is that where you’re keeping the band?”
“Band?”
“Never mind.”
“If you say so. My name is Aidan, and I’ll be your friendly Dryver.” Aidan takes my bag. “The other passenger should be arriving shortly. Please, take a seat.”
A clap of thunder breaks overhead, followed by a light sprinkle. Ozzie yips in his crate. He hates thunder and lightning and wind. He actually hates all weather that isn’t sun, which I think is the reason he has epic meltdowns whenever it rains in California. He feels betrayed.
“Hush.” I lift him into the van and place him on the floor between the two middle-row captain’s seats. “If you get us kicked off this van, I’m shipping you to Sheboygan.” Ozzie turns away from me and stares out the open door to scream at the rain. “Good talk.”
I riffle through my oversize purse to find his doggy cannabis treats. His barking escalates, which doesn’t help things, considering my purse is more like a giant garbage disposal wrapped in faux leather. It contains everything from a few advance reader copies my publisher sent me to my traveling collection of crystals and lethal hand sanitizer.
“Where the hell are you?” I grumble under my breath.
“Right here.”
I whip my head away from my purse so fast I smack it on the driver’s seat in front of me. I know that voice. I know that voice the way I know my own. I look up, and there he is. Smith Mackenzie.
My ex-husband.
