Page 115 of Unmanageable

When she finally opens the door, the girl who was laughing at my hair is totally gone.

“We need to load the van.”

She doesn’t look at me. She goes straight for her briefcase on the desk, her fingers snapping the latches shut with two loud, metallic clicks. Her face is a mask of professional, detached efficiency.

“Hey,” I say, taking a step toward her. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Cash. We’re just on a schedule.”

By the time I carry the rest of the bags out to the parking lot, she’s already in the passenger seat with her laptop open, the screen casting a cold, blue glow over her face.

I climb into the driver’s seat of the old van and start the engine, waiting for her to do her usual routine—pick a playlist, complain about my driving, or make some joke about the grease on my shorts.

Instead, she just types. Her fingers hit the keys with a hard, aggressive rhythm that fills the quiet cabin.

“You want to stop for breakfast?” I ask, keeping my tone carefully neutral. “There’s a diner down the block. I think they have those pancakes you like.”

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“You’re always hungry in the morning, Scottie. You usually eat half my eggs.”

“I said I’m not hungry, Cash.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, my hands tightening on the thin, oversized steering wheel.

I don’t get it.

Ten minutes ago she was giggling, her fingers tangled in my hair, warm and soft against me. Now, it feels like if I breathe too loud, she’s going to explode.

***

The sky has turned that bruised shade of gray, a low ceiling of mist that drags against the tops of the mountains as we make the long haul toward the city.

The vibe inside the cabin is shot.

Scottie doesn’t say a word. She also hasn’t looked out the window once since we crossed the state line. The silence is loud, but the typing is louder. Her fingers hit the keys with a fast, aggressive rhythm that fills the entire front seat. Click, click, click-tap. It sounds like a tiny machine gun going off in the passenger seat.

“Scottie,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You’ve been staring at that spreadsheet for too long. Close the screen for five minutes and rest your eyes. I can put on a podcast or something.”

She ignores me completely, her fingers moving even faster. She doesn’t answer, she doesn’t nod, she doesn’t give me anything.

“Scottie,” I repeat, frustration starting to prick at my skin. “Take a breath. You’re going to break the keys.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she lets out a sharp, forced laugh. “I’m just focused. You should be focused too.”

“I am focused,” I say. “But you’re being weird. What’s in Oklahoma besides the rink?”

“Nothing,” she says instantly. Too fast. “It’s a city, Cash. It has hills and cowboys and a hockey coach. That’s what’s in Oklahoma.”

She doesn’t speak again for fifty miles.

The silence stretches out, growing heavier with every mile marker we pass. I try to clear my throat, and she visibly flinches, her shoulders hunching up toward her ears like she’s trying to shield herself from the sound.

I reach over to adjust the volume on the radio, just trying to get some background noise to drown out the tension, and the second my fingers touch the dial, she snaps.

“Do you have to fidget so much?” she demands. “It’s incredibly distracting. Some of us are trying to actually work here.”

“I’m turning up the radio, Scottie. Jesus.”