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malibu
end of december
"hurry, hurry! let's go! chop chop!"
i was already at the bottom of my stairs, all of our luggage sent off. i got my driver's permit, and i would be (legally) driving us to the airport. (maybe a little over the speed limit, but i still had a permit)
that is... if my dad got ready on time.
"i'm coming!" he yelled down the stairs.
he unceremoniously clashed down the stairs. "okay, i'm ready!"
i rolled my eyes, unimpressed.
"about time."
"what's that supposed to mean?"
"nothing," i told him. "nothing at all. now get in the car or i'll leave you here to celebrate new year's with dum-e."
"can't believe my own daughter is threatening me," my dad muttered as he sat in the passenger seat of the car.
"what can i say?" i shrugged, "learnt from the best."
my dad snorted.
he never let anyone drive him. it was one of his worst fears. he'd never admit it, but i knew it had to do with grams and gramps car crash. even happy— his own personal chauffeur and bodyguard — never drove him anywhere.
