Ozzie whimpers in his crate. It would be cruel not to get him his customary slice of meat lover’s, and even crueler for me to make him an orphan because I passed up a slice of greasy airport pizza. The line isn’t too long, so I drag Ozzie and my luggage over while pulling up the Dryver app on my phone.
“A slice of meat lover’s pizza and a slice of pepperoni with extra garlic,” I say once we reach the front of the line. Extra garlic might not be the wisest choice, but Martin should know up front that I’m the sort of woman who will always sacrifice fresh breath for a satisfied belly. “Add red onions too.”
“Alone for Thanksgiving?” the cashier asks. He leans over the counter and smiles at Ozzie. “Oh, never mind, there’s your little date. Such a cutie.”
“What did you just ask me?”
“Uh . . . if you were alone?”
His name tag says Karl. Karl with a K. He looks like a Karl with a K. All entitled and judgy. The teenage acne and oversize plastic frames almost had me fooled into thinking he was some Pretty in Pink, Jon Cryer nice guy. But he’s not. Karl is no Duckie Dale. I narrow my eyes and push the 10 percent tip option on the card reader instead of 20 percent.
“My husband is dead, Karl.”
“Oh my god.” My receipt shakes like a leaf in his hand. “Are you serious?”
“No, but what kind of person asks someone if they’re alone in an airport?” I snatch the receipt from him. “I’ll tell you what kind. Serial killers. Are you a serial killer, Karl?”
“No!” Karl frantically waves his hands in front of me. “I thought I was flirting. I promise I wasn’t thinking of killing you.”
“Oh.” I wish I could say this was the first time that something like this has happened to me. You’d think that a woman who writes romance books for a living would be a tiny bit more perceptive when it comes to flirting. “Sorry I called you a serial killer.”
We stare at each other in awkward silence. There’s a small line of people behind me that had no idea they’d be getting dinner and a show when they stepped in line for pizza.
“Do you want Parmesan packets?”
“Obviously.”
Ozzie and I take our slices to a table at the back of the food court. It’s the farthest I can get away from Karl and people without breaking any laws of science.
I pull out my phone and open the Smut Coven group chat.
Penny: I scared a cashier who was trying to flirt with me.
Jackie: Again?
Chelsey: Did you make this one cry?
Penny: No. I called him a serial killer though.
The Smut Coven consists of me and my two closest friends, Chelsey Hicks and Jackie Von. Like me, Jackie and Chelsey are romance writers. We met at a local writers’ group, not long after I moved to San Francisco, and started critiquing each other’s work. When Jackie and Chelsey’s lease was up, they moved in with me, and the Smut Coven was born. We’ve been roomies for the past nine years, and as of a month ago, we’re now business partners. Or at least we will be if we can come up with the cash to officially open our romance bookstore.
Chelsey: That wasn’t very Pisces of you.
Jackie: Cut yourself some slack. It’s your first time home in forever.
Jackie: And you’re there on business. Not pleasure.
That’s the truth. I’ve always been envious of people who go home for the holidays or even just on a whim without having to book extra sessions with their therapists to prep first. It’s not that my parents are bad people. They recycle, send handwritten thank-you notes, and I’m willing to bet they’re lifelong donors to the ASPCA because of that Sarah McLachlan commercial. They’re good people. They’re just so radically different from me that whenever we spend time together, we always end up turning into the worst versions of ourselves.
And I know it’s me. I’m the problem.
My twin sister, Phoebe, posts pictures on social media all the time of her with our parents at brunch at the Del Coronado or at home having a barbecue, and they all look so happy. I know social media is the highlight reel of our lives, but the reason Phoebe posts so many pictures with our parents is because she’s with them all the time. By choice. Even now I’m not coming home by choice. It’s a necessity.
Penny: Business. Not pleasure. I can do this.
Chelsey: Mercury is in retrograde.
Jackie: Ugh. Of course it is.
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.”