6. Can You Drive a Stick?

CHAPTER 6

CAN YOU DRIVE A STICK?

WESTON

On Christmas Eve-Eve, I meet Abbi at noon outside the Vermont Tartan Flannel Factory. She comes bouncing out of the building right at noon, and stops short when she sees me leaning against the driver’s side of her car. Her eyes widen.

“Hey, sister. Something the matter?”

She blinks. “Nope. Not at all. Thank you for meeting me here. You look nice.”

“Thanks. You too.” In fact, I’m glad I put on nice slacks and a V-neck cashmere sweater. Because my fake girlfriend is wearing a dark red velour dress that my sister would describe as artsy. It looks soft and fluid, like red wine in a fabric form. There’s just a hint of cleavage at the top. Just enough of a peek that I’d like to put my face right there and kiss the skin above the neckline of that dress.

She looks delectable.

Abbi opens the hatchback and tosses in a duffel bag and her winter coat. I snap out of it and follow her back there to do the same thing. “You mind if I drive?” I ask. “Since I know where we’re going?”

“Sure thing.” She holds up the keys. “But it’s a manual transmission. Can you drive a stick?”

I snort. “That’s like asking a man if his dick works. ”

“Well, does it?”

I grab the keys out of her hand. “I’ll show you,” I growl.

She snickers. But the truth is I’d like to show her more than my driving capabilities.

Down, boy . I unlock the car and get behind the wheel, scooting the seat back about eight inches so I can get my legs into the car. In fact, I drove this car once before. But Abbi was so rattled, she doesn’t remember.

She’s not rattled now, though. She slides into the passenger seat, humming to herself. “I’m so happy to have a couple of days away from school and work. I will go anywhere with you this weekend, so long as it does not involve serving fried food to drunk people.”

“You won’t have to serve any food,” I say as her old engine roars to life. “And hopefully there won’t be many drunk people.” Honestly, drunk people are fine. Unless we’re talking about my father.

In this situation, that could be problematic.

I pull out of the parking spot at the flannel factory. It’s in an old brick building on the Winooski River. “What do you do at this place, anyway? How many jobs do you have?”

“This was my fun job,” she insists. “My internship here is just ending, and I got course credit instead of pay.”

“Cool. Which kind of business major are you?” I head for the highway. Abbi’s car is a little sluggish. I wonder if she’s gotten it serviced lately.

“I’m doing two concentrations—finance and marketing. I want to work on product development, but when I look at job openings for next year, most of them are in marketing.”

“Marketing might be fun?” I say hopefully.

“Possibly,” she hedges. “This internship was in marketing, and I spent a lot of time trying to take good pictures of flannel with my phone. But I guess everyone starts somewhere.”

“True.” Stepping on the gas, I accelerate onto southbound 89. But the needle doesn’t budge. “Um, Abbi? I don’t think your speedometer is working.”

“Oh, it’s not. You have to just watch the other traffic and blend in. ”

“Okay.” I chuckle as I ease back into the right lane. "Any other quirks I should know about?” She insisted it would be a waste of money to use a rental for the weekend when she had a "perfectly good" car that just sits around most of the time.

Her idea of "perfectly good" and mine are apparently different.

"Well, the gas gauge is also broken. But you don't have to worry about that, because I keep track of my mileage on the trip odometer."

“Ah, okay?” I glance nervously at the gas tank indicator. “So we don't really have three-quarters of a tank?"

"The tank is full, Weston," she says gently. “You're not going to run out of gas. Not today, anyway."

“Good to know.” And it’s not like I need any extra things to worry about. I’m drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering whether this whole trip was a colossally bad idea.

Abbi reaches over and momentarily places a hand over my twitching one. “Do we need to sing it out? I could cue up a nice loud song.”

"Oh, definitely," I admit. "At some point. Why don’t you find us something seasonal to listen to?” I like holiday music. Or at least I used to, in the Before Times.

“Good idea,” she says, grabbing her phone to scroll through the available tunes. "I'll find something."

I glance briefly toward the passenger seat, where the sun illuminates her silky hair. We're cruising down 89 South toward my corner of Vermont. It's the day before Christmas Eve, and the highway is empty, even for Vermont. There's crisp white snow blanketing the landscape.

There's beautiful scenery everywhere, especially on the passenger side of the car. I'd just like to take a gulp of her.

But I won't, of course. "Hey, Abbi? We'll probably have to share a room. But you can trust me to be a gentleman."

"I know that,” she says easily.

"One of the rooms has two sets of bunk beds in it, and that's probably the one we'll get anyway. You can have first dibs.” I can count on my brother to claim the other room with the double bed in it .

“Thanks,” she says, still scrolling. “Tell me where we’re going, anyway. I never drive around Eastern Vermont.”

“It’s nice there,” I promise. It’s the one good thing I can say about this weekend—the accommodations are a good time. “My dad's place is right on Lake Morey. It’s a cool old lodge that has been in his family for generations. They used it as a summer lake house.”

"And he lives there year-round, now?"

"Yeah. He did a big renovation and winterized the place. But we left the bunk room the way it was, because he likes it when we bring friends home." Although I usually do that in the summertime, when Dad's place feels less claustrophobic.

Abbi turns on a playlist. It's a cappella Christmas music by Straight No Chaser . But the volume is low, so I guess we're not singing off my tension yet.

“Now, let's take a moment to discuss our story," she says cheerfully. “Who are the major players, here? What do I need to know in order to play my role effectively?"

“Let me guess—it’s a lot more fun to be on the other side of this question.”

"Why, yes it is!" She smooths her dress over her knees. “You were right—someone else’s family drama is much easier to handle. So what do I need to know?"

I guess I can’t put it off any longer. “Well, first I’d like to say that I understand why you didn't fill me in on the whole Price situation ahead of time."

"Because it's weird and embarrassing?"

"Yeah. My situation is pretty bonkers. But there's no way that you're not going to notice. So I'll just come out and tell you that my mother left my father for..." I take a deep breath.

"A woman!" Abbi guesses.

"No way." I snort. “That would have been so much better, seeing as my dad doesn’t have any sisters."

Abbi is silent for a second, and I can practically hear the cogs turning in her brain. “Wait,” she gasps a moment later. Her voice is hushed, like she's afraid to voice this suspicion aloud. “She left your father for his... "

“ Brother ,” I say heavily. "My uncle Jerry is now my stepfather."

Abbi clutches her chest. “Holy crap. That's some serious drama. How did it happen? Wait—never mind. I don’t really need to know. But was this recently?”

“Four years ago my uncle got into a serious snowmobiling accident. He was always the wild man of the family. My dad is a nerdy architect, a studious kind of guy, right? And Uncle Jerry is a mixologist, a ski bum, and gave me my first hit off a bong.”

“I hope you weren’t five years old,” Abbi grumbles.

“Nah.” I laugh. “I was in high school. But anyway—he gets into this accident—which was his fault, by the way—and he had all these broken bones and three surgeries. My mom is a physical therapist, and he needed a lot of help. So she took him on as a pro bono patient. His rehab took months.”

“Oh.” Abbi sits with that for a moment. “And they spent a lot of time together.”

“Yup. They didn’t just jump into the sack. Apparently they tried to be very civilized about the whole thing. One night my mother just turns to my father in bed and says, Mickey, I need a divorce. I’ve fallen out of love with you and in love with someone else .”

Just saying this out loud makes me want to shudder for my poor dad. “He had a whole life with my Mom, and she just torched it because Jerry was—quote— more fun and life-affirming .”

“Ouch,” Abbi whispers.

“Ouch,” I agree.

“I can’t even imagine what that did to your family. Did your dad and his brother get along before that?”

“Not really. My dad was the serious one and Jerry was the screwup. They’re five years apart in age, too, so Mom left him for a younger man. Now Jerry and my mom live in the house where I grew up. Jerry basically just moved into my dad’s bedroom.”

Abbi groans. “No wonder your dad is a wreck.”

“Yeah.” Not that he’s dealing with it very well. He moved out more than two years ago, and he’s still boiling with anger. When my sister suggested he go to therapy, he flat-out refused.

“Will they both be at this party tonight? Your, um, uncle and your mom?”

“You bet. Jerry would never miss a party. He probably invited half the upper valley. There will almost certainly be a special cocktail for the occasion, and he’ll give a long speech about how the drink is perfect for my sister’s personality, or some shit. He likes the spotlight.”

“Okay,” she says gamely. “We’ll smile through it and make a point to drink something else.”

That was pretty much my plan too, and I shoot a grateful look toward the passenger seat.

“You’re very special, Weston. I never met a guy before who was his own cousin.”

I snort. “My family tree is twisted, that’s for sure.”

“Do you have grandparents?”

“Strangely enough—or not, depending on your viewpoint—my grandpa on my father’s side has gone a lot deafer since this whole thing went down. His way of dealing with the chaos is not to hear a lot of it. And never to wear his hearing aid. Can’t say I blame him.”

“Oh, that poor man,” Abbi says. “What a mess. No wonder you don’t like the holidays anymore.”

She’s right—I used to love Christmas. But the holidays are just a chore now. On the stereo, the a cappella group is singing “Jingle Bells,” and I’m just not feeling it. “It’s like I’m numb to Christmas,” I mumble. “But Lauren would shoot me if I skipped this party. And so would Stevie—that’s my little brother. He’s eager to meet you.”

“What did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing, I swear. But I never bring girls home for stuff like this. Neither does he. I mean—would you?”

“I tried on Thanksgiving, remember? It didn’t go so well.”

“Exactly.”

“We need a plan,” she says. “How close are we supposed to be? Am I just some girl you brought home, or are we dating? How thick should I lay it on?”

I chuckle, because I’d really enjoy watching Abbi turn up the girlfriend vibes. I wouldn’t say no to a fake kiss or two. Although that’s not really fair to her. “Look, you don’t have to do anything that isn’t comfortable for you. They won’t believe it, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” She gasps in mock outrage. “Am I not girlfriend material? I wore tights and a dress for you. ”

“No, you goof. You are more lovely and convincing than any other girl I’ve brought home in three years because?—”

“Because you haven’t brought anyone home in three years.”

“Now she gets it. Nothing against that dress, though.” I’d still like to touch it—or peel it off her. Although I’m not about to say so.

She clicks her tongue. “Weston, I think you doubt my acting skills.”

“It’s not that,” I promise.

“Still, it’s only fair that I get a chance to snow your family as well as you snowed mine.”

“Okay.” I laugh.

“Let’s go with the same story we told my family—we’ve been dating about a month.”

“Fine.”

“And what do I win if I can make them believe me?” she asks sweetly.

A kiss . “Um… a dinner that didn’t come out of the deep fryer at the Biscuit?”

“Yes! And that bottle of wine we never drank together.”

“You’re on. This will be fun. I mean—I totally snowed your stepdad. It’s only fair to let you compete.”

“Exactly.”

“But it won’t be easy, Abbi. My brother and I have spent the last two years insisting that relationships are for suckers. You can’t really live in my dad’s house and believe otherwise.”

She shrugs. “I like a challenge. Besides, it will make the party more fun, don’t you think? People will be gossiping about us instead of your stepfuncle.”

“My—?”

“Stepfather-slash-uncle. Your stepfuncle. Besides—I already have a pet name for you picked out. It would be a shame not to use it.”

I snicker nervously. “I’m terrified now. But fine. Two can play at this game. I’m going to call you…” I hesitate. What’s a slightly silly but ultimately believable pet name for Abbi?

Honey is too generic.

Kitten?

Sugar pop?

Hmm .

“It’s not so easy, right?” She sounds a little smug. “The name has to fit, or people will see through us.”

“Eh. I made your stepdad into a believer. And I did it without a pet name.”

“Pfft. Price was suspicious of you,” she points out.

“Was not,” I argue just because it’s fun to goof around with Abbi. If she were my only company for the next three days, I’d actually be looking forward to Christmas.

“He was too,” she chirps. “Do you want to argue some more? Or are we going to sing something at the top of our lungs? I just found the Avett Brothers singing ‘ If We Make It Through December.’ ”

“That sounds more than appropriate,” I admit. “Blast it, baby.”

And she does.