Page 103 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
Sighing, I lean my head back against the leather. “But isn’t that exhausting?”
“At times.”
I close my eyes, the events of the day already catching up to me. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
I tilt my head toward him, looking up from under my brow. “You can be kind of annoying, you know that, right?”
“I can see that.” He smiles.
I nudge him in the shoulder.
“She’s older than me.” He catches my frown. “The girl I like.”
“Oh.” I hesitate a moment before offering, “The, um, man I like is older too.”
“Then you get it,” Mike says, having more confidence in my intelligence than I do. “Everyone comes at life from varying paths, with unlimited opinions formed by our experiences. I’ve found that the older one gets and the more of the paths they’ve walked, they tend to be more set in those opinions.”
“Yeah.” I think about Vance scheduling a vasectomy. “Tell me about it.”
“But”—Mike stabs his fingers at the touchscreen in the console looking over my pre-programed radio stations—"a pretty nice benefit of having all that experience is it hopefully won’t take them long to set aside their emotions and recognize their mistakes.”
I let that sink in.
Vance has a fear of dying and leaving loved ones behind, which I only found out about today. After which I sucker-punched him with the baby bombshell. Is it fair to expect him to sort through those emotions in an instant?
I was so hurt that he didn’t feel like I did, that he wasn’t overwhelmed by a sense of rightness over my pregnancy that I wrote off his reaction as concrete proof that when he left, he left for good.
Brittany Spear’s “Baby One More Time” plays from my speakers.
Mike scoffs. “The pop station? Really?” His look of disgust is the most emotive I’ve seen him since he got in my vehicle.
I laugh. “Calm down, Eddie Vedder.” Remembering what blares from the auto shop speakers on any given weekday, I push his hands away and switch the audio source. “I have satellite radio. All the nineties stations your little grunge soul can handle.”
Brittany switches to Nirvana with the touch of a button.
“Well, that’s something.” Not pausing to enjoy Kurt Cobain’s iconic laconic growls, Mike pushes a few more buttons. Instead of “Smells like Teen Spirit,” nursery rhymes set to soft music play. “This is a good one, I’ll set this in your top five.”
My stomach drops.
Mike pushes more buttons. “Remember my date from the wedding?”
I nod, remembering the brunette.
“That was my sister. She just had a baby a few months ago, and this is the station that always puts my niece to sleep when all else fails. Especially in the car. Something about the purr of the engine and the rocking in the car seat.” He gives me side-eye. “Remember that in case it comes in handy. Some babies are finicky sleepers.”
I close my mouth and swallow. “How did you…”
He drops his head forward and levels me with a look. “Rose. You’re twenty-one and sitting in a newly purchased mini-van crying.”
My face heats.
“And if that wasn’t enough—” He thumbs behind us.
I glance in my rearview mirror at the reflection of the car seat I set up yesterday, having wanted to make sure I could do it properly.
“Oh.”
