Page 27 of The Holiday Fakers
I speed up, scanning the road ahead, looking for the next place I can exit, praying she’s going to be okay.
“Piper, I?—”
“Bro—Bro—ahahaha?—”
She’s hyperventilating, and I’m freaking the fuck out. Slamming the car into the right shoulder, I screech it to a halt, unclip my seatbelt, and grab her shoulders.
“Piper! Look at me! Breathe!”
Tears stream down her bright red cheeks.
I reach for my phone. “I’m calling 911.”
Her hand closes over mine. “No! I’m—I’m fine.”
I take a breath and pause, gazing at her more critically. “Are youlaughing?”
She’s now alternating between snorts and whoops like a pig in a cage fight with an owl.
I slump back in my seat, a wave of relief crashing through me. I’ve been on edge for months—scratch that—years, and over the last few days, the tension inside me has ratcheted up to heart-attack levels.
The SUV rocks slightly as cars whiz past with a roar. I listen to the thunk-thunk-thunk of the wipers, the rapid thudding of my heart, and Piper’s breathing as she gets herself under control.
“I am so sorry,” she says, sniffing through her tears of laughter.
I don’t open my eyes, still trying to calm myself down and not rebound into rage at how much she frightened me.
“I was expecting, I don’t know, a pre-packaged ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in plastic, or a couple of mystery meat hot dogs in foil. Or maybe a slightly squashed Hostess cupcake and a couple of cans of room temperature soda. Not the fanciest food in New York.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
I open my eyes and skewer her with a look. “I wouldn’t even buy that for Marv, and he’s at the top of my shit list.”
She plays with the clasp of her purse. “It’s just so fancy, that’s all. I’m not used to it.”
You should be used to it.You deserve the best.
Huh? Where didthosethoughts come from?
Turning my gaze away, I fiddle with the air vents. The interior of the car feels too small right now.
“Would you prefer we stop and get something else?”
“No way!” She settles back in her seat. “I want to try everything.”
“So you’re not really a gluten-free, sugar-free, whatever-free, vegan?”
She giggles. “God no. You should see me at Thanksgiving. I eatallthe food.”
I smile, but the image of her around her family’s table is tinged with sadness. After my mom, my only family, died, I should have spent every Thanksgiving with the Lockes. Instead, I left Hideaway and never came back.
I merge back into the traffic, dreading what I might be walking into.
“Do you want me to feed you?” Piper asks as she rummages through the bags. “Pop chunks of cheese or some charcuterie in your mouth? I think most of this is finger food.”
“I’m not hungry right now. I might have something later if you want to do some of the driving.”
I skipped breakfast because of nerves, and now my stomach’s in knots thinking about returning to Hideaway.
