Page 23 of I Can't Help It

“Luke? You can pass if you don’t want to answer.”

I flex my fingers over the steering wheel as I tell myself one final time that there will be NO making out on the side of the road.

Once my mind is somewhat clearer, I give her my answer. “I don’t think I’ve had my best kiss yet either.”

I catch a glimpse of her eyebrow quirking up. “Oh, really?”

Keep it together, Luke. Conceal, don’t feel.

“Really.” My tone is flat and cool, but my nerves are buzzing like I just drank a shot of espresso. “So, what’s the next question?”

WHAT AM I DOING WRONG?

Ava

My phone says we have twenty minutes before we’re supposed to reach Whispering Creek Lodge, and the car ride has been so much fun.

We answered more questions, and I’ve learned that Luke CANNOT fake an Australian accent to save his life. It was adorable watching him try though.

We listened to a “road trip” playlist that I found online. Neither of us recognized most of the songs, but we just pretended to know them anyway.

We read a lotttt of bumper stickers. Some were cringey, while others were plain inappropriate. But my favorite one was pink and said: “Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.”

Oh yeah, we also made a quick detour for ice cream. Rocky Road ice cream, because that’s the only acceptable flavor while on a ROAD trip. There’s no room for debate.

Apparently, there’s plenty of room for hiccups though.

The evil suckers have been plaguing me since I ate my ice cream way too fast. Why couldn’t I just get some brain-freeze instead? I sound like I’ve been barhopping, and Luke finds it amusing.

I don’t.

“It’s—” Hiccup. “Not—” Hiccup. “Funny.”

“Should I tell you about the trick for hiccups that my grandpa taught me when I was a kid?” he asks as I hiccup again. “It usually worked for me.”

Another hiccup.

I curse in frustration. “Yes! You should—” Hiccup. “What’s the—” Hiccup.

Oh my gosh, this is ridiculous.

“Okay,” he says, clearly trying not to grin, “so Grandpa would tell me to get the tips of my pinkies as close as possible to each other without letting them touch.”

I blink at him. “What?” Hiccup. “How is that—” Hiccup.

“Just try it.” He flicks his blinker on before changing lanes. “Trust me, it helps.”

I’m still dubious, but I hold my pinkies up and try to get the fingertips close without letting them touch, and then my hiccups ruin everything because my pinkies touch anyway.

“It didn’t—” Hiccup. “Work.”

“Keep going. Give it a few more tries.”

I grumble under my breath as I let my pinkies hover in front of each other again. And guess what? More hiccups.

My pinkies touch.

This feels like a losing game.

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