Page 96 of Debugging Love

Chance, the player.

Why do the good-looking ones have to be so, so bad?

Oh, look. Chance is good at faking dejection too.

The cars ahead of us start moving. I zap out of Chance’s spell and look frantically at the underbrush. “They’re not back.”

“What’s taking them so long?”

“He had to urinateanddefecate.”

“But all Morgan had to do was squat.” Chance drops the car out of park and inches forward.

“We can’t leave them!”

“We’re going less than five miles an hour.”

“Yeah, but…”

We creep ahead several yards. Still no sign of Morgan and Drew. “Maybe you should pull over,” I say, a minute later.

Chance sighs heavily as he clicks on his right turn signal, but the brake lights in front of us flash, necessitating a change of plans. He holds his foot on the brake for another minute. We’re parked again.

Finally, bodies appear in my side mirror. I twist around to get a better look. Drew and Morgan are walking along the shoulder, drivers honking and passengers making catcalls as they pass. When they come into focus, I realize Morgan is doing most of the walking. Drew is holding on to her for balance as he walks gingerly, favoring one foot. He still has his sweatpants wrapped around his neck.

Morgan tugs on the door looking sweaty and bedraggled, her blonde hair frizzed up like she just slept on it for twelve hours and her arms covered in small scratches. Drew has dirt on his cheek, a huge scratch on his forehead, and burrs all over his hair and clothing. She helps him into the car, both of them grunting and sighing.

“Turn up the AC,” Morgan gasps.

Chance obliges and then gapes at our injured passengers.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Drew fell into a ravine.” Morgan is still panting.

“Called it,” Chance says.

“I slid,” Drew corrects. He wipes his nose with his palm, which transfers more dirt onto his face.

“Was that before or after you wiped your butt with poison ivy?” I ask.

Drew’s eyes reduce to slits. “I did not wipe.”

A chorus of ew’s erupts in the car.

“Two tablespoons of chia seeds a day keep the TP away,” Drew says. He rests his head back to catch his breath.

“I finished my business and then I heard thrashing in the underbrush. It was Drew sliding down into a dry creek bed.”

“Why did you do that?” I ask Drew.

He narrows his eyes at me again. “I was trying to walk back to the car and I could not see where I was going.”

“Were your bangs in your eyes?” I ask. I can’t help it.

Morgan rolls her eyes at me. My cue to stop teasing him. She swivels in her seat and begins picking the burrs off of Drew’s shirt. When she has a palmful, she lowers her window and tosses them out. “He hurt his ankle and couldn’t climb out on his own, so I helped him.”

“Which is why you look like you wrestled with a bull in a pig pen,” Chance says.

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