“You two know each other?” Aidan asks. “Makes sense since the two of you are going to the same street. Pretty ritzy street at that. Did you guys grow up together or something?”
Great. Now the driver has questions. This rideshare is turning into The View very quickly.
“We were in rival gangs,” I deadpan. “My family colors were plaid. His were floral. Twice a year we’d street fight with pool noodles, and the winner got to smash the loser’s china piece by piece like they do in those mafia movies; except in the movies, they smash fingers instead of china. It was all very hard core.”
“Uh.” Aidan slow blinks at me in the rearview mirror. I’m not totally sure, but it kind of looks like he’s signaling SOS in Morse code. “That’s interesting.”
“We’re divorced,” Smith says.
My breath catches in my chest. He said it so easily. Like it was no different than telling someone his eye color or his voting party.
Smith catches on to the fact that my eyeballs are now dangling outside my head. “You all right?”
“Are you going to tell him my bra size next? Maybe my social security number?” I lower my voice. “He’s our driver, not Anderson Cooper.”
“A divorce is public knowledge. You can google it.” Smith shrugs. “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say defensively.
“Are you sure? Because your face is saying otherwise. You’ve got that little worry divot you always get when you’re upset.” He touches the spot in between his eyebrows where he thinks I have a worry divot, but I have a receipt for $500 worth of Botox that says otherwise. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t,” I fire back.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I’d hate for us to have to settle this in the streets. I forgot my floral shirt and pool noodle.”
I let the subject drop and focus my gaze out the window to catch my breath. I’ve been back in San Diego for an hour, and it already feels like a lifetime. I take my phone from my purse and summon the Smut Coven.
Penny: Houston, we have a problem.
Chelsey: Oh my god, did your dad say no already?
Jackie: Did you show him the Google Slides presentation I made for you?
Penny: Relax. I haven’t talked to my dad yet.
Penny: I’m in my rideshare right now.
Penny: Sitting next to my ex-husband.
The van jerks to a halt, causing my seat belt to strangle me.
“Sorry about that,” Aidan says over his shoulder. “You know what they say, nobody knows how to drive in the rain. Self included. So how long have you two been divorced?”
My entire body tenses at the word. I glare at him in the rearview mirror. “Aidan, your rating goes down half a star every time the word divorce is mentioned in here.”
It’s not that I’m embarrassed about being divorced. It’s something that happened to me, like chicken pox when I was five and overplucked eyebrows when I was fifteen. It was unpleasant, but it didn’t kill me, and most of the time, I don’t even think about it happening at all. Divorce and my marriage are neatly tucked away in little boxes of emotion in the Old Penny filing system of my brain. I like keeping them there under lock and key. Smith bringing up our divorce screws up the whole system, which is the last thing I need before going home for the first time in a decade.
“What about marriage? I, myself, am recently engaged to my longtime girlfriend, Viktoria. We’re meeting for the first time this Christmas. She lives in the Czech Republic, or at least I think that’s where she’s at. Her English isn’t exactly great.”
There’s an entire 90 Day Fiancé episode’s worth of material I’d like to unpack with Aidan, and under normal circumstances, I would. But right now, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to juggle his mail-order bride and my ex-husband.
“You take this one, or I’m going to make him stop at Target so I can buy a pool noodle and whack him with it,” I say to Smith and open up my group chat again.
Chelsey: Shit. What are the odds?
Penny: Not in my favor.
Jackie: What does he look like? Is he still all dreamboaty?
I glance at Smith from the corner of my eye, as if I somehow need a reminder of the fact that he’s aged quite well.
Penny: He looks fine.
Jackie: Fine?
Jackie: You’re a USA Today bestselling romance author, and all you’re going to give us is fine?
Chelsey: Never mind what he looks like. How do you feel about seeing him?
Jackie: Right. Feelings.
Jackie: Also, take his picture.
Penny: I don’t know how I feel.
Penny: And I can’t take his picture.
Jackie: Sure you can. Pretend you’re taking a selfie.
Chelsey: Or take a minute to process your emotions.
Penny: That’s weird.
Penny: The selfie fake out. Not the processing.
Penny: I’m not in the headspace to process feelings.
Jackie: Maybe taking his picture will help.
Chelsey: Jackie!
Jackie: What? You’re not curious what he looks like now?
Chelsey: A little.
Penny: Fine. I’ll take the damn picture.
Jackie: Thank you.
I turn on my camera, which is unfortunately on selfie mode. Nothing quite prepares you for seeing what you’d look like if Jabba the Hutt was your father. I flip the camera and steal a glance at Smith. Suddenly, my palms are all sweaty, and it feels like there might as well be a neon sign flashing above my head that reads Peeping Tom. The things I do for my friends. I lift my phone eye level and try to angle it so that it looks like I’m taking a selfie.
“Are you taking my picture?” Smith asks.
I fumble my phone. “No. I was taking a selfie.”
“Really? You want a photo to commemorate your time in this rideshare?”
“That sounds awfully judgy coming from a man who made me take his photo with the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile on more than one occasion.”
“Do not mock the Wienermobile.” Smith holds out his hand. “Hand me your phone. I’ll take the picture for you.”
“As if,” I say in my best Cher Horowitz voice. “The whole point of a selfie is that you don’t need anyone to take it for you. Ask any Kardashian.”
“True, but I’m pretty sure I could ask any Kardashian if they wanted their photo taken by an award-winning photographer and they’d jump at the chance.”
“You’re an award-winning photographer?”
“In the flesh.”
“Have they called you to photograph the Wienermobile yet?”
“Not yet.” He looks down at his hand. “The offer still stands.”
“Fine.” I quickly change my camera back to selfie mode and hand over my phone. “But make sure you get my good side. I don’t have the Kardashian money to ensure that all of my sides are good.”
“You never needed it, Pen.”
Heat spreads across the apples of my cheeks, and I can’t help but smile so big it hurts my face. He hands back my phone, and I instantly start to tuck it back in my purse.
“An award-winning photographer takes your picture, and you don’t even bother to look.” He shakes his head. “I’m insulted.”
“Calm down, diva. Clearly the description award-winning doesn’t extend to your personality.” I open up my phone. Looking up from my screen isn’t a picture of me. It’s him.
“You can let Jackie know that you got the damn picture.” He chuckles. “Her text popped up when you handed me the phone.”
My cheeks go from heated to wildfire, and for the first time in a very long time, I’m speechless. I drop the picture in the group chat and tuck my phone away.
“By the way, what exactly is a Smut Coven?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, which I wouldn’t mind doing, but it doesn’t seem fair to make Aidan an accomplice.”
Aidan slams on the brakes, and the van fishtails from side to side as we attempt to merge onto the 5. Ozzie and Harriet slide to the back of the van. I turn to reach for them, but Smith’s arm holds me back like a human seat belt. He holds me like that until Aidan regains control of the van, and when Smith finally moves his arm, I think my heart might beat right out of my chest.