Read Online Driving With the Top Down by Beth Harbison - Free Book Online

a bangin’ start. Colleen was as nervous with a sixteen-year-old girl as she would have been with a sixteen-year-old boy when she was a sixteen-year-old girl. All tied up in knots about saying the right thing, not saying the wrong thing, not offending, not judging. It was all incredibly uncomfortable.
    For both of them, no doubt.
    She pulled up to the drive-through window and ordered her usual, plus a large coffee—even though she’d probably have to stop and pee a hundred times after drinking it—then looked to Tamara and asked, “Anything?”
    “An Egg McMuffin,” Tamara said, then quickly added, “And hash browns. The double one on the dollar menu.”
    No sooner had Colleen yelled the order into the microphone than Tamara added, “And a biscuit. And a Wild Berry Smoothie.” Then, as if that were going too far, she tagged on, “Small is fine.”
    Colleen placed the order, secretly glad the girl was going to eat, because Tamara really did look like she needed it. Not that Colleen thought Chris didn’t feed his daughter; he probably just didn’t take her tastes into account much. He was used to being on his own, and honestly, no matter who else came into his sphere, he probably wasn’t likely to be very accommodating. That was how Chris was. That was how Chris had always been.
    By the time they hit the road, it was a lot later than Colleen had hoped to leave, but at least it was with full stomachs.
    Unfortunately, it was also with empty minds. At least conversation-wise. They drove for long, long stretches of silence, tied up in a long ribbon of D.C. traffic. Miles and miles passed, all looking the same—big buildings behind Jersey walls and construction. Brake lights. Horns. Extended middle fingers. This stretch of road felt like it went on forever, where if it had been a straight country road through farmland, it might have passed like a favorite song.
    Instead the drive dragged like an amateur opera, made louder by the silence in the passenger seat.
    There was no way to tell what Tamara was thinking, if she noticed or was uncomfortable with the awkwardness, but Colleen’s mind was racing, trying to think of something—anything—to say. Initially she was aiming for witty and entertaining, but now she would settle for anything that was simply communicated out loud.
    Meanwhile, Colleen’s entire playlist was murmuring quietly over the speakers in the oppressive, muggy car, and the windshield wipers whipped out of sync to the music. She kept catching herself humming along, then stopped, embarrassed. She really wanted to belt out with it, but she was very aware of the presence next to her, and she could feel Tamara looking sideways at her now and then.
    “So, do you have a boyfriend?” Colleen asked at last, even though it was exactly the sort of lame typical-adult question she’d wanted to avoid.
    “I—” Tamara paused, then sighed and looked out the window, her posture tense. “No, not really.”
    That hesitation raised a lot of questions, but none that Colleen felt like she could ask right now without seeming really intrusive.
    Instead she nodded. “I had a lot of on-and-off things at your age.” Whatever that meant. How on earth could that be helpful? She was just trying to fill the gaps in conversation, and the effort was obvious to both of them. “What do you like to do in your free time?”
    Tamara glanced at her and shrugged. “Listen to music. I don’t know. Watch TV. The usual.”
    “Yeah? What do you like to watch?”
    Tamara shrugged again. “I don’t know. Whatever’s on.”
    Right. Good start. “And what music do you like?” She was losing the kid, she could tell. How could she not? Her questions were so judge-y, Tamara’s nonanswers even worse.
    “Old stuff, mostly.”
    “Really?” That answer surprised her. Did this seemingly sullen, drug-addled teenager secretly harbor a love for Sinatra? Perry Como? Nat King Cole? “Like who?”
    “The Clash—”
    Oh.
    “Sex Pistols,