“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.”