Page 70 of It Started at the Lake

“Then let’s go.”

I open the passenger side door for her, then climb into the driver’s side. “What kind of music do you like?” I ask, starting my Range Rover.

Millie clicks her seatbelt in place. “I’m not too picky. What about you?”

“Anything from ‘80s classic rock to indie pop rock.”

“Solid choices. I’ll let you be the DJ.”

I shake my head. “I’m driving. The passenger gets control of the radio. Car rules.”

“What other car rules do you have besides wanting to be the one who drives?”

“The usual. Passenger gets to choose the music, no eating unless we’re on a road trip, no sticky drinks, and the gas can’t get below half a tank, no matter who’s driving.”

Someone has strong feelings about his car. “Ah, okay. I found something we disagree about.”

Pulling onto the main highway leading out of Stokesley, I ask, “What?”

She raises her shoulders. “I’m a ‘let’s see how long we can make it after the gas light turns on’ kind of person.”

My immediate reaction is to tell her how unsafe that is. What if she gets caught on a freeway for hours because of traffic or weather? What if she gets hurt, but doesn’t have enough gas to get her or a friend to the hospital?

But another thought occurs to me before I can open my mouth. What if she’s like that out of necessity? What if she can’t afford to fill up and runs her tank on fumes because of that?

“If the gas thing is our only issue, I think our friendship will survive.”

“Evie says I snore,” she admits in a rush, like if we hurry and say all our flaws, they won’t matter.

If she wants to play this game, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose. Or win, depending on how the score is calculated. “I refuse to have a television in my bedroom. Before falling asleep at night, I need an hour without a screen in my face.”

“I burp like Homer Simpson whenever I drink soda.”

Does she really? “Ha! I’d like to witness that.” Otherwise, I’m not sure I believe her.

“You say that now. Wait until it’s bedtime and I can’t stop.”

Yeah, that sounds gross. “I leave dirty dishes in the sink more often than not.”

“I do too.”

I have one most people think is weird. “I don’t like leftovers.”

“Some food tastes better the next day. You’re missing out.”

“You’re lying. Name one.”

She tsks. “Easy. Chili, lasagna, beef stew, shepherd’s pie.”

Nope. I’ve had all of those the day after, and not a single one tasted better than the night before. “Yeah, I’m good. You can have all the leftovers whenever we share meals.”

“Done deal.”

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to come up with another character trait of mine. “I’d rather be too early than late.”

“Ugh, late people suck.”

“Your best friend sucks, huh? Should I call her and tell her that?”

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