“I’d have to leave Saturday morning. When were you planning on coming back?”
“Saturday morning.” A tiny smile lifts her lips. “Timing works out…”
“Does that mean you’re down?” I ask hopefully.
“A free ride to New York and wild weekend sex? Of course.”
“Good. I have one favor to ask, though.”
She tips her head, waiting for me to continue.
My mood, which had been lower than low before, is now as bright as the grin I flash her. “Bring Winston.”
*
And that’s how I end up driving to New York with Allie in the passenger seat.
The sun has already set by the time we hit the road, because Allie had rehearsal until six, and then it takes her a whole frickin’ hour to pack. Me, I bring a backpack. Her? She brings an overstuffed suitcase that barely fits in my trunk.
I had left my hockey bag in there because it literally didn’t occur to me that she’d pack so much shit for three short days. Luckily, the parking lot behind Bristol is completely deserted, which means nobody sees us trying to jam the suitcase in the trunk. The campus is eerily silent, almost as if the Rapture sucked everyone up into the sky. Clearly we’re not the only ones who decided to head out the day before Thanksgiving.
Hannah and Garrett flew to Philly this morning, and Grace and Logan were gone a few hours later. They’re visiting Logan’s father in rehab, then hitting up his mother in Boston for the night before coming back to Hastings to spend the holiday with Grace’s dad. Tucker was still home when I left, but he’s driving to Hollis’s place in New Hampshire tomorrow morning. I’m glad, because if he didn’t have anywhere to go, the guilt would’ve suckered me into inviting him to Manhattan.
After Allie and I are finally settled in the front seat, I discover that we have completely different tastes in music. It takes about five minutes of bickering before we reach a compromise—we each get thirty-minute music blocks, during which the other person isn’t allowed to complain. The little brat even sets a timer to ensure we abide by the rules. And of course, she announces she’s going first.
“Why can’t I go first?” I object.
“Because I’m playing the vagina card.”
I smirk at her. “Fine. Then I trump it with the penis card.”
“That’s not how it works.” She sounds exasperated.
“Then how does it work? Because last I checked, genitals don’t decide who gets to listen to their music first.”
“Oh yes, they do.” Allie addresses me like I’m a kindergartner. “See, if you take away my dick privileges, I’ll be fine for months. Years, even. But if I take away your pussy privileges? You’ll be utterly lost. Like a drowning man at sea, desperately grabbing for the vagina preserver.” She beams. “Therefore, vagina trumps penis.”
My smirk fades, because she’s right.
As a result, I spend the first thirty minutes of the drive listening to cheesy 80s ballads that all feature the word love in their titles.
“I Want to Know What Love Is.”
“I Just Called To Say I Love You.”
“It Must Have Been Love.”
You’d think Allie was not so subtly trying to tell me something, except I’m fairly certain every song from the 80s is about love.
When it’s my turn, I pick the filthiest tracks I can find. Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Some non-radio-friendly Jay-Z. Cypress Hill. I even throw an Insane Clown Posse song in there.
Allie retaliates by putting on Madonna’s greatest hits.
Instead of punishing her, I decide to reward myself and switch from hip-hop to country. Yup, rich boy likes Tim McGraw. So sue me.
We’re still on the I-90 with about two hours left to go when Allie pulls out her phone and starts typing.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I ask, “Who you texting?”
“Dillon…a friend from high school. She goes to college in Florida, but I’m hoping she’s coming home for the break. Oooh, and I should check if Fletch is around.”
“Fletch?”
“Kyle Fletcher, but I call him Fletch,” she says absently. “Ex-boyfriend.”
My head swivels toward her. “You’re making plans with your ex-boyfriend?”
“Retract those claws, missy. Fletch is still a good friend of mine.”
I can’t fight my curiosity. “How long were you together?”
“Three years.”
I whistle softly. “And then three and a half more with Sean…You’re a nester, huh?”
“No, I’m not,” she protests.
“Babe, that’s almost seven years of your life spent in a serious relationship. And you’re only twenty-two.”
“Twenty-one. I’m a Christmas baby.”
“For real? Your birthday’s the twenty-fifth?”
“The twenty-fourth. I guess that makes me a Christmas Eve baby. Sorry.”
“You better be sorry. How dare you mislead me like that?”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, fine. You’re right. That is a long time.” She pauses. “What’s your longest relationship?”
“A little over a year.” I answer without moving my gaze from the dark highway.
“Really?” she says in surprise. “That’s a lot longer than I expected. High school?”