Page 13 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
Jesse pats his belly. “Delicious. I only had seven, though, so don’t worry.”
Imogen rolls her eyes. “You big ol’ fibber.”
He jogs up the steps and kisses Imogen, one hand on her cheek and another big paw resting possessively on her very slightly rounded belly. “Can’t get anything past you. We each had two, and probably more chili cheese fries than any two humans should be able to eat.”
Imogen pats his cheek. “I guess I’ll need to make sure we have Pepto for later, huh? You know how those things give you indigestion.” She eyes Franco. “I thought you didn’t eat that crap, Franco?”
Franco shrugs. “I don’t, usually. But I give myself one tasty treat every Saturday afternoon. This week, it was chili cheese fries. Next week, it’s gonna be a whole pizza, I’m thinking.”
Jesse eyes me. “Whassup, Nova? How you doin’?” He says this in a funny and terrible approximation of a New York accent.
“Going home, that’s how I’m doing,” I say. “Just had to have a quick chat with Imogen.”
Jesse elbows Franco with a meaningful expression exchanged between them. “You quit?” His question is addressed to me.
I blink at him. “What?” Both men hold carefully blank expressions. “What do you mean?”
He arches an eyebrow at me, and then looks at his fiancée, and then back at me. “You did, didn’t you?”
I glance quizzically at Imogen, who just shrugs and shakes her head.
“I been thinking you’re gonna quit the wedding sometime this week, and Franco says next week. We got a hundred bucks riding on it, so tell me—who won?”
“You guys were betting on whether I’d quit planning your wedding?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around the idea.
He shrugs, nods. “Well, yeah. You’ve been more uptight than ever lately—and saying this as a friend, babe…that’s really saying something. So I figured you’d end up quitting sooner than later, for reasons you don’t seem inclined to share.”
I blink, hard. I know his words were coming from a teasing, friendly place, but they still hurt, for reasons I don’t quite want to examine at that moment.
Imogen frowns up at Jesse. “Jesse, baby—not cool. That was insensitive of you.”
I shove down my emotions and paste a smile on my face—years of nursing has taught me how to do that with the best of them. “It’s cool, Imogen. He couldn’t have known.” I click my tongue and shoot a finger gun at Jesse. “You win, bud.”
Jesse seems confused. “I…shit. Sorry, Nova. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine, honestly. I’m hard to offend.” I glance at Imogen, then. “You can fill him in. I’ve told that story twice in the last twelve hours, and I don’t think I’ve got the energy for it at the moment.”
I go out to my car, slide onto the sagging cloth seat of my Explorer, buckle up, and start the engine. Or rather, I try to—it wheezes, rattles, and refuses to turn over. I groan in annoyance, give it a second, and then try again, and fortunately this time it starts. Albeit, the belt squeaks, the pistons rattle, and the gas gauge doesn’t work, but it runs, and it gets me from point A to point B.
I grew up driving the newest, slickest, fanciest cars. If I wanted an upgrade, all I had to do was ask. I didn’t pay for gas, didn’t pay insurance, and I had an unlimited credit card. I got a new Mercedes every year and, on my eighteenth birthday, I got a Ferrari. Which I crashed within a week, and got it replaced with a Range Rover Autobiography a week later because the power of the Ferrari scared me.
So, when I left for college, I sold the year-old Range Rover for cash, bought this Explorer new, and have driven it ever since, and plan to drive it into the ground. I clip coupons, never buy anything that’s not on sale, pay cash for everything, and save at least 70 percent of my income. Not because I have to—I make good money at the hospital and have no dependents and very few bills—but because I choose to live a drastically different lifestyle than my parents provided for me growing up.
I’m probably never going to get married or have kids, but if I ever do, I’ll do it differently than my parents did, that’s for sure.
I’m less than two miles from home, stopped at a red light, and…rattle, rattle, sputter, jerk…silence.
“FUCK.”
I just filled the gas tank two days ago, so it’s not out of gas; I changed the oil myself a month ago, so it’s not that. It’s just…dead.
I turn on my emergency flashers, roll down my window, and wave for the people behind me to go around. I shove the shifter into neutral and get out of the car, wait for traffic to clear, and then brace myself in the open door of the car and start pushing. The big bitch is heavy, but I’m a strong girl and I get it moving. I angle across the intersection for a Walgreens parking lot, ignoring the honks and shouts for me to move out of the way.
