Page 1 of Shut Up and Drive

Chapter 1

PIGEON

Sera

The smell of vanilla buttercream frosting wafts into my nose as I pipe the last swirls on a groom’s cake. The red, white, and blue theme makes my heart happy—not just because Independence Day is my favorite holiday, but because most of my core memories were born on the Fourth of July. I put an extra little bit of love and fireworks into this cake, because the bride and groom share my patriotic sentiments. I smile to myself when I imagine how it will look with sparklers flaring on top while they cut it. The idea is genius. And yes, it was mine.

I stand back to admire my work, and my phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I ignore it,again,because I’m ninety-nine percent sure I know who the caller is, and I’d rather have a gynecological exam from Edward Scissorhands than talk to that cheater. I glance at the clock above the window:five thirty-seven.

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, and set the piping bag down. I box up the cake and take it inside the walk-in refrigerator, tensing against the shiver I get every time I go in there. Spending so much time in the walk-in is by far the worst part of my job. Bridezillas? Not even a close second. I’m so good at cakes I rarely hear anything but my praises being sung. I love what I do—but I’d rather get goosebumps from watching a bride’s face light up at my confectioner’s masterpiece than from standing in here too long. My breath fogs in front of my face as I set the box right next to the matching three-tiered wedding cake, and I smile. “Congratulations, you two. Now go shine for the bride and groom this weekend.”

I untie my apron strings and step back into a climate meant for humans.

“Are you delivering this one yourself, Serafina?” Chloe, my assistant, asks.

“Nope! This one is all yours. I’m headed to paradise tomorrow.” I resist the urge to squeal.

“Are you and Bradley going to the Bahamas or something?”

I shake my head emphatically. “Not since he decided to take his mistress out to my favorite restaurant onmy birthdaylast week.”

Her face twists. “Ouch. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, waving a hand in dismissal. “The face he made when I walked up to his table and dumped the bucket of ice in his lap gave me all the closure I needed.” I ignore the twinge of humiliation that settles in my chest. “I gave him twelve months of my life, and he gave me more trust issues.” I force a laugh. “But therelief I feel for dodging that bullet outweighs the need to drown my sorrows in ice cream.”

“Well, have fun… wherever you’re going. I’ll keep you posted on the Whitman wedding,” Chloe replies.

Grabbing my purse and keys from the hook, I holler over my shoulder, “You’ve got me on speed dial!” The door to the bakery shuts behind me, and I look both ways before stepping out into the street. The last thing I need is a rogue taxicab plowing me over right before a much-needed vacation. They may be painted a happy yellow, but the road rage inside them negates their joyful color.

The sounds of yelling New Yorkers and honking horns inundate me as I walk to the subway station. I stare up at the skyscrapers around me, and I love how small I feel. It’s like standing next to the ocean—only far less peaceful—the enormity of it showing me just how vast the world actually is. I’m not sure why I love it, but it keeps me humble. I move with the crowd on the sidewalk, taking up my tiny corner of space in the city. I inhale through my nose as I walk past Tony’s pizza, the smell of fresh dough and Italian spices making my stomach growl.

Did I even eat lunch today?

I pause, pivot, and go inside instead of walking past—which is what I would normally do, because Bradley said carbs aren’t a good look for me—and get a hot, cheesy slice out of sheer rebellion. Any man who keeps a woman from pizza is a red flag. I should’ve known long ago he wasn’t my person for that alone.

I savor every gooey bite on my walk and finish the perfectly crunchy crust as I descend into the subway station. I wipe the residual grease from my fingers andtoss the napkin into the trash as the echoes of my train approaching squeal to a stop. The doors pop open with a happy chime that matches my mood. I step forward on the platform, am promptly shoved backward by a rushing passenger exiting, then step in someone else’s gum. But not even that can ruin my day. My belly is full of the best pizza in the city, and I’ve got ten days at our South Carolina lake house waiting on the horizon.

Life. Is. Good.

My favorite lakehouse playlist plays in the background as I pack my bag. I grab my cute floral clipboard from my nightstand and cross offflip flopsandred bikinias I throw them both in my suitcase. A smile of satisfaction crosses my face as another column gets completed on my list. When Bradley calls for the millionth time, I send him to voicemail and force away the idea that this list was originally for my Bahama vacation with him.

“It may not be what I had originally planned, but I can adapt,” I say to my reflection. “Instead of lying on the beach in paradise with a ‘Red-Flag Chad,’ I get to relax lakeside with my family and read my favorite rom-coms.” I exhale and get back to work, thoroughly convinced that this weekend is exactly what I need to recharge and mend the rest of my humiliated heart.

I toss the rest of my toiletries into a separate bag, grab two paperbacks—just in case I finish one—and zip up myluggage. I make one more pass around my apartment, water my already-shriveled plants, and lock the door behind me. This trip is about self-care and healing. And giving myself this “me-time” is like an Independence Day celebration for my soul. I’m smiling on the outside, but my heart is screamingfreeeedoooommm!

On my way to my parents’ house on Long Island, I sing loudly with my windows down. As soon as I cross the Queensboro Bridge, all my cares slough off behind me in the city. The immediate slowdown my nerves feel as I leave the chaos and noise behind is the perfect start to my me-cation. I wind through the small-town streets I grew up on and wave to strangers, already feeling lighter.

My car rolls around the corner toward the house I grew up in, and my heart stalls. Not because my car is making that knocking noise again, but because of what my eyes settle on when I look beyond the giant lilac bush that separates my childhood home fromhis.

I pull alongside the curb—because I learned my lesson the first time my old clunker dripped oil on my dad’s driveway—and put my car in park. You’d think that in an affluent neighborhood like this, where perfectly trimmed shrubs are sculpted into the shape of animals, twists, or whatever the paid landscapers felt like that day, our parents would have bought us fancy cars when we turned sixteen—just like the rest of the kids on the street. But not the Donnellys or the Spencers. They insisted we work for the things we wanted in life, which is precisely why I am still driving the hunk of metal I bought for my seventeenth birthday.

I turn the key and listen to her stutter out. Then I shovethe flathead screwdriver stored in my cup holder into the buckle to release my seatbelt. I’ve known for a while that my car was in bad shape, and even if Icanafford to replace her now that I finally have a career, letting go of her isn’t something I’m ready to do. Priscilla may be past her prime, but she has been good to me. I feel nothing but loyalty to her rust spots, oil leaks, and weird noises. Besides, I barely drive her once a week to come out to Sunday dinners at my parents’ house on Long Island. Everywhere else I go in the city I walk or take the subway. That alone has probably prolonged her life.

Thane’s truck in the driveway was something I had grown so accustomed to throughout my teenage years that it became a fixture of my world. But now, after five years of itnotbeing in its usual place, seeing it fills me with dread, not nostalgia. A million and a half memories of running barefoot flash through my mind—my brother Sebastian, Thane, and I made this neighborhood our kingdom growing up. But only one memory pauses on the screen of my mind: Thane’s taillights driving away in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. I can still see them—the bright red glare blaring through my tears in the darkness, the dimly lit license plate bulb swinging from its taped-up wire. Then there’s the desperate need to chase after him in my pajamas, knowing I’d never catch him—especially if hewantedto leave. Even after so many years without him, the smell of exhaust from an old truck still gives me a knot in my stomach.

As if right on cue, the familiar ache in my chest that I never fully healed from is back on center stage, belting out a show tune like it’s on Broadway. I take a deep breath toshove it back into the box I packed it away in long ago, but my confidence in this tried-and-true practice wanes the closer I get.

I grip the steering wheel and brace for the impact that’s coming. I can fake-smile my way through seeing him again, but my heart shudders like my engine at the thought. I let the discomfort settle in my gut. I have been so excited for our annual family trip to South Carolina—especially because I can finally put some miles between me and Bradley—but seeing Thane’s truck next door means only one thing: he’ll be coming too. At that thought, my heart picks up. The rapid breathing that takes over my calm, deep breaths makes my head float a few inches above my body. I check my makeup in the mirror—because if I happen to see Thane, I want him to regret the day he left—apply a fresh coat of my killer signature red lipstick, and grab my purse.