Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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The minivan is warm and dim and smells like leftover chips and whatever lavender nonsense my mom sprays on the seats every time someone dares to bring fast food into her sacred vehicle.
We're halfway through the drive back from dinner, gliding down the dark stretch of suburban road that leads back to the house, the heater cranked too high because my mother is permanently cold and my father refuses to fight her on anything temperature-related. I've unzipped my coat halfway, but I'm still regretting the scarf, the thermal, and the second layer of socks. It was freezing when we left the house, but now I'm sitting in the back seat sweating like a linebacker, slowly stewing in wool and regret.
Mom has her seat heater on full blast—again—and is using the fogged-up window to continue her completely unhinged recap of dinner.
"Tell me he wasn't into you," she says, gesturing wildly at the dashboard like the air itself owes her backup. "Cam, he smiled at you with teeth. Real teeth. And dimples."
I drag my sleeve across the window so I can actually see the road. "He smiled because I asked for a Coke and didn't scream at him about ranch."
Mom twists in her seat to look at me, one eyebrow raised like she's gearing up for battle. "He brought you your drink first every time."
"I was closest to the bar," I say flatly.
"He leaned in when he talked to you."
"He was holding three plates. Of course he leaned."
She doesn't respond to that. Just stares at me like I'm an idiot. Or blind. Probably both.
"You're young," she says finally. "Your hormones are supposed to work. Why are you like this?"
Dad clears his throat from the driver's seat. "Don't bring hormones into this, Kirby."
Mom smacks his arm. "I'm just saying. The man was hot. He looked like a firefighter who models for cologne ads on the side. And he kept looking at her like she was the dessert special."
I lean my head back on the seat and sigh. "He was doing his job."
"No. No, see—that was more than service. He was smiling like he knew something. You saw that, right?" She turns halfway in her seat to look at Dad. "You saw that?"
Dad doesn't take his eyes off the road. "I saw him bring the food. That's about it."
Mom scoffs. "You both need glasses."
I crack one eye open and look at him in the rearview. "I'm going to pass out."
"That's on you for wearing five layers."
"You told me it was cold."
"It was cold."
"Yeah, outside."
Mom twists to look at me again. "You looked nice tonight."
I narrow my eyes. "You're only saying that because you think I should've gotten his number."
