Brent walks beside her holding Sherman on his leash, listening as she rattles off a litany of instructions. Her dog walker’s still going to take care of the mammoth beast during the day, but his nights will be spent in Brent’s care.
“I really appreciate this, Brent,” she says, leaning down to give the jowly dog a few hugs, a bunch of kisses, and two be a good boy’s. Then she feels Jake’s and my stare. She looks between the two of us. “What?”
I hold up a member of the luggage gathering. “Did you get Porsche confused with Winnebago?”
She takes off her sunglasses, revealing eyes clouded with genuine confusion. “Are you suggesting I overpacked?”
“I’m suggesting you need to narrow it down, Soph. Take only what you need.”
Her hand circles over the bags. “This is narrowed down.”
Pointing to rear of the car, I counter, “We’ve got one compact trunk and a backseat that’s not big enough to fit a . . . Sherman.”
“Woof.”
It sounds to me like the dog’s on my side.
Sofia frowns at him, then insists to me, “I need all of it.”
“Do you want to see what I’m bringing?” I march around and pull a battered old gym bag out from behind the driver’s-side seat. “This is my luggage.”
“And I should change my packing habits because you choose to live like a hobo? I don’t think so.” She rolls up imaginary sleeves and looks from the car to her bags then back to the car.
“These will totally fit.”
Jake shakes his head. “No way.”
Sofia grins. “Sure they will.”
“They’re not gonna fit,” I reiterate.
“Watch and learn, boys.”
Fifteen minutes later . . . they fit. Each bag strategically placed, stacked in just the right order—like one of those riddle puzzles that you can’t ever get back together again once it’s taken apart.
I’m pretty damn impressed.
“Now,” Sofia sighs, smile glowing. “Keys, please.”
She holds out her hand for the aforementioned keys. And I start to explain—to argue why it would be best for her to not actually drive my car. I’m good at the arguing.
But before I can utter a single word, her open hand turns into a single finger.
“No.”
I close my mouth. Then open it again to convince . . .
And the finger strikes again.
“Nooo.” When I scrape my teeth across my lip instead of speaking, Sofia goes on. “You asked for my help—I agreed. If I’m going to the Middle-of-Nowhere, Mississippi, I’m driving there.”
She’s good at arguing too.
I hand over the keys.
And like the Griswolds in a German car, we buckle in for the road trip.
Jake reminds us, “Drive safe. Watch out for assholes,” while Sherman barks and Brent waves.
Then, in an accented voice, Brent shouts, “Bye-bye—have fun stormin’ the castle.”
And we hit the road.
• • •
Within the first twenty-five miles, Sofia’s driving takes about ten years off my fucking life. It’s not that she’s a bad driver—the opposite, actually. She drives like a female Dale Earnhardt. I just wish it wasn’t my car she’s playing NASCAR with.
“Whoa!” I yell, bracing my hands on the dash as she rides straight up the ass of the truck in front of us, only to change lanes at the last minute, almost nicking the front bumper of a minivan already there.
“You’re like an old woman!” she complains, yelling above the noise of the open top, her hair whipping around like Medusa’s snakes on methamphetamine.
“And you’re like a soccer mom late for practice!” I yell back. “Slow down and enjoy the driving experience—because believe me, after today you’ll never have it again.”
Her mouth opens wide in an unrepentant laugh. Then she messes with the buttons on the steering wheel, activating her phone’s playlist that’s wirelessly connected to the speakers. And out pours Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues,” one of Sofia’s favorites.
I can’t help but watch her and chuckle as she belts out the song, loud and shameless, swerving her head and bopping her shoulders. I’ve seen Sofia fired up, stubborn, determined, and turned on. But adorable—that’s a new look for her. And I like it. Very much.
Her expression turns sultry as she meets my eyes quickly while singing, “Rolling like thunder, under the covers . . .” I don’t have to wonder what images she’s seeing in her mind—whose images, because I know it’s snapshots of us.
When the song ends, I slide my own phone into the jack, hooking it up to the speakers.
“Hey,” she objects. “Driver picks the tunes!”
“Actually,” I correct, “shotgun controls the music, but I was being benevolent. We’ll take turns—quid pro quo.”
She nods and I scroll through my songs until I find the one. “Now this is a song to cruise down the highway to.”
And the unmistakable voice of Elvis Presley fills the car, singing “Burning Love.” I nod my head in time to the beat and snap my fingers—as close to dancing as I’ll ever get.
Sofia laughs. “You can take the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the Elvis out of the southern boy.”
I point my finger her way. “That’s very true.”
I feel her smiling eyes watching me as I sing, “’Cause your kisses lift me higher, like a sweet song of a choir . . .”