Page 96 of Revv

“Good. Maybe your dick will finally stop making decisions for you.”

I look down at myself, then back at her. “Nah, Mama. He’s resilient.”

“Ay, qué pena.”

“You’d miss him.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“Liar.”

She backs out of the driveway with one hand on the wheel while the other turns the music up. I reach toward the radio, and she slaps the back of my hand without even looking.

“You’re testing me,”

“I was turning it up.”

“You were about to touch my playlist.”

I grin and try again just to be an asshole. She catches my wrist this time and shoves it back toward my lap.

“Hands to yourself, pretty boy.”

“You know that’s never been my strong suit.”

“Oh, I know.” She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts.

The first hour passes in a mix of coffee, breakfast, and arguing over everything that exists inside the car. She says I’m blocking the air vent. I remind her the seat was designed for a twelve-year-old. I try on her sunglasses. She tells me I look like a douchebag, and I scoff, telling her they look better on me.

Little by little, she relaxes.

Her shoulders drop. One knee turns toward the console. She starts tapping the steering wheel in time with the music, then singing quietly beneath her breath.

I lower the volume.

She stops and looks at me. “Why did you do that?”

“Wanted to hear you.”

“I wasn’t singing.”

“Sounded like singing.”

“I was breathing.”

“In tune?”

“Shut up.”

The next song comes on, something loud with a fast Latin beat, and she gives in before the chorus. I join her with the wrong lyrics and enough confidence to make up for the fact that I have no clue what I’m saying.

She looks horrified but laughs. “That isn’t even close.”

“Sounds right.”

“You’re not speaking Spanish.”

“Music is universal.”