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When Keaton pulls on to the freeway at what feels like a snail’s pace, I cut my eyes over and see that she’s going five below the speed limit.
No, that’s just not going to cut it.
“Has anyone ever told you that you drive like a grandma?” I say, turning my head slightly to take in her reaction.
“I do not,” she argues, obviously taking offense to my jab.
“I’m pretty sure Miss Daisy just passed us in the slow lane,” I comment, leaning forward in my seat as if I’m searching the cars in front of us.
“It’s called being respectful of someone else’s property,” she sasses, her eyes never leaving the road.Her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, hands resting at a perfect ten and two, is enough to make me laugh.
How is she the Street King? She can’t even relax.
Street King. I roll my eyes, scoffing under my breath. What a stupid title.
“It’s called you’re boring the shit out of me,” I counter, and reach forward to turn on the CB radio between us. “Open her up and see what she can do.”
She glances at the CB for a nanosecond before militantly staring out the windshield again, leaving my derisive comment to hang there between us.
“Do you always drive around with a CB in your car?”she asks, and I’m not sure if that’s curiosity or judgment painting her tone.
“Yep, I don’t want your boyfriend pulling us over,” I joke.
Her nostrils flare slightly, and the muscle in her jaw ticks. Apparently, she doesn’t think it’s as funny as I do.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Uh-huh, sure,”I say, knowing full and well that the guy’s not her boyfriend, but for some reason I enjoy riling her up.
“He’s my best friend,” she states matter-of-factly. Then, as if someone let the air out of her, she deflates back into the seat, a crease forming between her brows. “Well, we used to be.”
“What do you mean?”
She peeks over at me, her steely expression back in place.
“Seriously, come on. We’ve got another thirty-minute drive at the rate you’re going. It won’t kill you to make conversation,” I say, frustration settling in.
“It might,” she mumbles under her breath, and if I weren’t sitting right next to her, I probably wouldn’t have heard it.
“It won’t,” I reply.
She purses her lips as if she’s considering my point before she sighs exaggeratedly through her nose.
“We grew up together, but I guess we’ve just grown apart recently,” she says.
“You think maybe the illegal street racing has anything to do with it?” I ask light-heartedly, but there’s an underlying seriousness to my inquiry.
“Sander doesn’t know I race, obviously. We just grew in two separate directions, I guess.”
“But why does that mean you can’t be close anymore?” I shift in my seat, giving her more of my attention now that she’s actually talking to me. “Take me and Milo for example; sure, when we were younger we hung out a lot, but after I started racing pro and moved out of town, our worlds just sort of didn’t fit together the way they used to. But I still want to hang out with him when I can,” I explain.
I find fault in my words, though. After I signed on with my dad, I had a lot less time to drive out to Sancte Alto. I spent much of my time learning the ropes and the business side of racing professionally, that when I did have free time, I was too tired to do much of anything else. Throw in the fact that I was grieving the loss of my brother and taking out my anger on anyone within throwing distance, and I just knew that I wasn’t going to be a very good friend to be around.
Not that self-isolation did a hell of a lot of good for me. Thinking back on it, being with my friends was probably the best kind of therapy I could have had, but I shut myself away and only got worse.
“Well, Milo isn’t a cop, and I doubt very seriously that he’s going to rat you out for racing where you aren’t supposed to,” she says, and it’s true.
“You think your friend… what’s his name?” I turn toward her, waiting for an answer.
