Driving River

Chapter Twenty

River

When I was a kid, my mom would visit dingy Vegas dive bars to pick up men. She'd leave me in the car—alone in a dark parking lot—for hours. I always made sure I had an insulin pen, and that my Nintendo Switch was charged. When she had ensnared her bed partner for the night, they'd return to the vehicle, boisterous and staggering. She'd get behind the wheel, smelling like cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. I don't know if they forgot a child was in the backseat, or if they simply didn't care. I'd cling to my seatbelt, my stomach churning. I'd close my eyes, wishing I was anywhere else. I'd feel the car swerve, then overcorrect. By dumb luck, we were never involved in an accident.

But the day my feet could reach the pedals, she plopped me into the front seat, and told me to drive. At twelve years old, I was her designated chauffer. Men would fondle my mother in the backseat, and I'd tune them out, focusing on the road. Since then, I've never allowed myself to be a passenger, apart from public transportation. There's a sense of security and control that comes with being at the helm.

Kendall is the exception.

Suffice it to say, the girl now knows how to drive—and she makes it look good. I'm too busy checking her out to worry about the road. She's wearing heels, yet she handles this Bugatti Chiron like it was made for her. Her lips are parted, and her expression is relaxed. She only has one hand on the wheel, but the pose is so sexy, I won't fault her for it. Kendall presses down on the clutch, shifting into sixth gear to pass a semitruck. She runs her fingers through her glossy brunette hair, twirling the ends.

I'm probably drooling. I check my face in the side mirror, but don't find evidence on my chin. I glance at a sign on the interstate, indicating we're approaching downtown Philadelphia. Kendall flicks her signal, merging into exiting traffic.

"Wrong lane, doll," I tell her. "This goes to Center City."

"I know," she tells me, looking over her shoulder. "I have to swing by my uncle's place."

"Okay, cool," I respond, adjusting myself.

We're spending the weekend in New Hope, Pennsylvania—a small suburb north of Philadelphia that Kendall calls home. Ken has twin sisters, Josephine and Arabella, and they're turning sixteen. The family is hosting a party for them tomorrow. Kendall and I will be staying at a bed and breakfast this evening. She suggested we crash in her childhood bedroom, but I politely declined.

It's not that I'm nervous to meet her parents. There are just certain acts you don't perform on a woman under her father's roof. And now that my ribs aren't throbbing every time I inhale, I plan on doing unspeakable things to Kendall.

I rest my hand on Ken's thigh, watching the city unfold from beyond the windshield. I'm not familiar with Philadelphia. It's cleaner than Vegas and dirtier than Manhattan, but the citizens appear proud of their home. Businessmen and women stride to lunch with their heads held high. Teenagers are gathered in groups around a massive fountain, taking selfies. Parents push strollers, making kissy faces at their children.