Shut Up and Kiss Me (Happy Endings 2)

There’s a note of wistfulness in her voice, but I’m not sure what to make of it, especially when we resume our pace and her makeup bag slips down her shoulder, inching along her arm.

“Let me help you,” I say, then tug at the strap.

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to.”

I scoff. “Don’t have to what? Be nice and carry your fifty-million-pound bag?”

She tilts her head, flapping a hand at me. “Be . . . you know . . . all helpful with me.”

But why wouldn’t I be? “You don’t want me to be helpful?”

“Like, manly helpful. You know what I mean,” she says, dipping her face.

“I’m not sure I do. You mean like a boyfriend?”

She swallows visibly. “Yes. Friends don’t have to carry their friends’ makeup bags.”

“The lack of sense in that life law is astonishing,” I say. “Because that’s exactly what friends do, you stubborn creature. And yes, I know you can do it yourself. I pretty much assume you can do everything yourself.” I wiggle my fingers. “But I want to carry it. So gimme the bag, Miss DIY.”

With a faux grumble, she hoists it off her shoulder and hands it to me. “Fine, Mister Hustle. Be that way.”

I slide it on my shoulder, smiling in a most satisfied fashion. “I will.”

“Also, thank you,” she says softly.

“You’re welcome, and you’ll really thank me when I throw out ten thousand lipstick tubes from here tonight. You need to be an ox to carry this.”

She rolls her shoulders back and forth like she’s grateful the weight is gone. “Yes, you do, and I would never throw out a lipstick. You never know when it might be the right color. So, thank you for being friendly and manly and oxen-like.” She rubs her palms together, ready to get cracking. “So, how are we going to do this? Airline?”

I grimace. “I already checked. It’s around six hundred dollars a ticket since it’s last minute.”

“Ouch. Road trip then? I do love a good road trip.”

“I know you do. But . . .” I tap my chin. “There’s only one little problem.”

She deals me a stern stare. “Don’t tell me you have something against Wanda?”

“No. Not at all,” I say in exaggerated denial. “I don’t have anything against the world’s smallest car. I love having my knees scrunched up by my eyes.” I do my best impression of the kind of sardine-like maneuver I’d have to execute to fold myself into the passenger seat of her wheels.

“It’s a little car, I’ll admit. But Wanda is a relentless beast,” she says, then goes quieter. “And she was Callie’s.”

“And I get that Wanda’s special because it was your road-trip car,” I say, squeezing her shoulder as we cross the street.

Emerson shudders out a breath, then rolls her shoulders. “And Wanda did her service,” she says, fondness in her tone now. “Grand Canyon, Chain of Rocks Bridge, Cadillac Ranch.” She emits a low whistle. “I mean, that car deserves a medal. Who knew it could hit all the classic Route 66 tour stops?”

I shrug an I told you so. “Not to pat myself on the back, but I did tell you to go for it.”

She laughs, bumping our shoulders together. “You did, and I’m glad we made that trip. Anyway, Wanda is an option, but maybe not for a Daddy Long Legs like you. And I’d ask if we could borrow Jason’s Tesla roadster, but I once googled the price of those, and there’s no way I’d let you borrow your brother’s wheels.”

“Good, because I’d never ask. He already does enough by letting me crash at his sweet pad,” I say, a little embarrassed, even though Emerson knows the score. “Not to mention that he paid for culinary school.”

“And you know he was happy to do that,” she says.

But I wish I could do something for him. Yes, he was a first-round draft pick and got a huge bonus, and when he knew I wanted to go to cooking school, he didn’t just offer to pay. He pretty much begged me to let him. And here I am, a few years later, without a restaurant or a chef’s hat to show for his generosity.

“I’m sure he was real happy that I went and decided a few years later that I didn’t like being a chef,” I say drily.

“I think he’s happy if you’re happy, but I hear you, and I think we should just rent a car,” she says, clicking around on her phone, then she sighs heavily. Her brow knits. “Did you know it’s nine hours to drive? We’ll have to leave tonight just to be safe, and we’ll need two nights at a hotel then. Are you sure there aren’t any cheap flights?” she asks as a sign for Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium beckons us at the end of the block.