Page 34 of Road Trip with a Vampire
“Is that a serious question?”
I glared at him out of the corner of my eye. “You’re a music snob? I can’t believe it.”
He pointed an accusatory finger at my phone by way of answer, then made to grab it. “How do I make it stop?”
I swatted his hand away. “It’s rude to touch another person’s cell phone without their permission.”
“You made that up.”
“I didn’t,” I lied. “What happened to me getting to pick the music because I’m driving?”
“That was before I knew how bad your taste in music was.”
Honestly.“When it’s your turn to drive, you can listen to whatever you want. For now, though, Mr.Music Snob…”
I trailed off and let Mel C and the other Spice Girls tell us what it was they really, really wanted.
Peter folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes on a melodramatic groan. “I may want it to be my turn to drive sooner than we’d planned.”
We drove for a whilewithout speaking, the only sounds coming from my upbeat playlist and the hum of the engine. We were making excellent time, and it took less than an hour for the beautiful coastal California scenery to morph into the flatter, less visually impressive fields and suburbs of the Central Valley.
After ten years, it still amazed me how tiny some of California’s microclimates were. The Sacramento suburbs were less than two hundred miles from where I now lived, and yet the Central Valley’s geography and climate had always reminded me more of a hot, dry plains state than it did my adopted hometown.
The scenery would only get worse from here, though. To get to Indiana efficiently, we’d agreed to drive along I-80, which I vaguely remembered as being one of the most boring stretches of road in the entire country once you got east of the Sierra Nevadas.
Peter was oblivious to the changing scenery, though. All his attention was on his road map, now wrinkled from frequent handling.
“Our first stop is another few hours east from here,” he said, without looking up. “Right off Interstate 80.”
“What’s the place called? I want to plug it into my phone.” I knew that the first stop Peter wanted to make was in the middle of nowhere in Nevada. But beyond telling me it was a restaurant, he hadn’t said anything about it.
There was a long pause before Peter responded. “Big Earl’s Singing Chicken Emporium,” he said weakly.
I nearly burst out laughing. “What?”
“I have no idea why I would have ever gone to a placecalled…that,” he admitted. “But apparently I did. It’s on the way to Indiana. So…”
He trailed off, shrugging.
“What is asinging chicken emporium?” I asked.
“I’m afraid to guess.”
I huffed a laugh. “Me, too.”
“Well, whatever it is, if we follow this itinerary, we should be in Blossomtown in about six days.” He drew circles and made other notations on his road map with a red Sharpie as he spoke, then folded it up and slid it back into his duffel bag. “This country is big.”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
“Have you explored much of it?”
His question brought me up short. This was the first time he’d ever asked me a personal question that felt aimed at simply getting to know me.
“I have,” I said. The landscape was changing again as we moved out of the Central Valley and into the Sierra Nevada foothills. Traffic was thinning out the farther east we went. Soon we’d be in the mountains. I thought back to the first time I’d camped in those mountains, a century and a lifetime ago. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes at night, I could still smell that clean pine air. “A lot of it’s pretty amazing.”
Peter nodded but said nothing. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of his seat.
Just when I thought he’d fallen asleep, he spoke again.
