Free Love Over Matter by Maggie Bloom Page B

I gesture at it and say, “You can take those.”
    He glances over his shoulder, as if my
father might show up at any moment to reprimand him. “Eh, I’ve
gotta check the oil in the van. Why don’t you get ‘em?”
    “ Whatever you say.” I tuck
the water bottles under my arms, snatch the coins—jar and all—and
trail him outside, the door slapping hopefully shut behind
us.
    * * *
    We’ve been on the road for nearly an
hour and devoured two fiber bars each when Ian starts scanning the
roadside for turnoffs. “What about the GPS?” I ask. “Won’t that
tell us where the filling stations are?”
    He shakes his head. “Maybe
if this thing ”—he
gives the GPS’s screen a tap—“wasn’t older than you.”
    “ It seems like it’s working
okay,” I state with a shrug.
    “ Sure, for the main roads.
Highways and stuff. Those haven’t changed much in the past ten
years. Other than that, it’s so outdated it’s useless—or worse. One
time it tried to send me down the river. Literally.”
    I stifle a laugh. “What about over
there?” I ask, squinting—and pointing—into the distance, where I’m
sure I’ve spotted the signature blue-and-orange logo of a
Cumberland Farms. “That might be something.”
    He wedges a bottle of water between
his legs, uncaps it and takes a swig. “I hope so, because those,
uh, ‘granola bars’ are doing a number on my stomach.”
    Part of me wants to chastise him for
taking his hands off the wheel, but another part of me admires his
dexterity. “Get in the slow lane,” I suggest. “So we don’t miss the
exit.”
    “ Man, my stomach,” he groans, giving the side-view mirror a glance
before easing us over. He drives faster than he should, clutches at
his abdomen and moans.
    I ask, “Are you okay?” (He’s starting
to go green.)
    Through gritted teeth, he says, “I’ll
be fine, if I can just . . .”
    Only a red light stands between us and
the Cumberland Farms, a fact that doesn’t stop Ian from blowing
through the intersection, the Love Machine narrowly escaping a
sideswipe from an oncoming but (luckily) turning SUV.
    “ What
the . . . ?!” I yell, glancing back at the
intersection, where I’m sure I’ve spied my own ghost. “You could’ve
gotten us killed!”
    The van bounces to a
cockeyed stop. Ian throws the shifter into park and, without a
word, bolts for the store. For a moment, I think of sitting tight
and pouting, so he’ll have no choice but to apologize when he gets
back. But then my stomach starts doing a twist of its own. Great, I think. How do I love public restrooms? Let me count the
ways  . . .
    I make it into the store in time to
spot Ian slipping into the men’s room. When I try the ladies’ room
door, though, it’s locked. And now the attendant, an overly pretty
twenty-year-old girl with a beach glow and sunlit hair, is giving
me a pouty-mouthed stare down. I fumble through a rack of movie
candy—Raisinets, Junior Mints, Goobers—as if I’m in the market for
a sugar high. Finally, the ladies’ room door swings open and I rush
in, barely clearing the seven-year-old who has just
exited.
    When I’ve finished my business, I
peruse the store for Ian, who may or may not still be holed up in
the men’s room (the door remains closed, so I can’t be sure). As
I’m winding my way through Potato Chip Land, something bizarre
penetrates my ears: “Cass! Cassie! Hey!”
    I pivot on my heel for the
entrance, where in struts Haley with Opal hot on her trail. And is
that—I blink, stare, blink some more— Rosie bringing up the
rear?
    What in the
world?
    I cut my gaze toward the window, a
giant pink bunny winking at me from the hood of Rosie’s
car.
    Haley and Opal pin me kitty-corner to
a display of Cool Ranch Doritos. In unison, they cross their arms
over their chests like prison guards.
    I search my mind for a witty quip, but
there’s only one thing for me to say: “What are you doing
here?”
    Rosie marches right up to
me and