Page 93 of Debugging Love

“When Drew was messing with it,” Chance says.

Drew sits up and twists around. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Where am I supposed to sit now?”

Chance glances into the van which will soon be packed with suitcases, making the back row unusable. He eyeballs the extra second-row, middle seat. It lacks arm rests and is designed to attach firmly to the floor, seatbelt and all.

Morgan is backward in her seat, propped up on her knees, staring at us. “No.”

“Yes,” Chance replies.

“Can we go back to the rental car place and request a different vehicle?” I ask.

“This was the last one on the lot.”

“Of course it was.” I cross my arms.

Morgan rears back and scrunches her nose. “What is that smell?”

“Drew has the toots,” Chance says.

I walk to the front of the van and climb in, leaving my door open for the cross breeze while Chance attaches the middle seat.

“I changed my mind,” Morgan says.

I whip around to confront her. “Time and a half.” Morgan holds my gaze, her glossy lips pouting as I repeat, “Time. And. A. Half.”

The words are like magic. Morgan’s mouth returns to neutral and her demeanor softens. She looks over at Drew who is still lying back and rubbing his neck like he just had a knockdown drag-out fight.

“You said you wanted to nap the whole way,” she says.

“I cannot ride in this van while lying down. In the event of a crash, I would slide forward and strangle myself with the lap belt while simultaneously beheading Chance with my feet.”

Morgan snickers.

“It is not funny. And I think I have whiplash.”

“It’s a little funny.” She folds up her armrest to give Drew more room. After he hoists himself into the middle seat, she rubs the back of his neck asking him where it hurts.

“There. There. Yes. Like that.”

And we’re off.

30 minutes later…

Sunday evening traffic is light as we head toward Orangeburg. This stretch of I-26 is still coastal, mostly flat and tree-lined, sparsely populated and bucolic as the bright evening sun shines down, but also mind-numbing, especially in the silence between Chance and me that is growing more uncomfortable as the minutes pass. After we left Morgan’s, Chance and I couldn’tagree on anything to listen to. Morgan settled in for a nap, and Drew wrapped a pair of sweatpants around his neck for his “whiplash,” and then he popped on a headset that’s fit for a helicopter pilot, with bulky earphones and a telescopic antenna. Couple that with his dark prescription sunglasses the size of dinner plates and he’s ready for take off. Thankfully, his intestinal bacteria calmed down quicker than he forecasted, so we’ve been breathing nothing but Morgan’s flowery perfume and new-car smell, both with alpine hints.

I can’t take another minute of Chance grasping and releasing the steering wheel, over and over like he’s bracing himself for a doozy of a comment. I think I know what’s going through his mind. Something like,Hey, remember our kiss on Friday? Let’s talk about that.I don’t want him to say it anywhere near Morgan’s ears because she’ll give me heck for not telling her Chance and I locked lips.

I grab my bag that’s stashed by my feet and dig for my earbuds. After sticking them in my ears, Chance says, “What are you doing?”

“I’m listening to something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Music that you hate. Or a podcast that would annoy you.” I pull up my Spotify and scroll through the live podcasts. Unsatisfied with the offerings, I search for Joe Rogan’s podcast and scroll through his recent guests to find the weirdest one, click on Synthia, the latest and greatest chatbot that can supposedly detect human thoughts and emotions through language patterns and inflections. Should be interesting.

“What if I get bored?” Chance asks.

I glance at him and shrug.

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