Driving Me Crazy: A Rock Star Rom Com

by Lisa Suzanne

This trip should have been so much more than I made it. I ruined the first half of it, but not anymore. We’ll stop and see whatever he wants to stop and see. We’ll hold hands and we’ll laugh and we’ll drive hours out of our way just for the hell of it. Because we can.

  And that’s everything this kiss is telling me.

  But most of all, it’s telling me that maybe, just maybe, everything’s going to be okay.

  And I hold onto that feeling as tightly as I can because I don’t know what tomorrow may bring.

  CHAPTER 31: AMBER

  When I wake up, I’m in my own bed, and for a brief moment I wonder whether I dreamed that kiss. And then Will slides in beside me.

  “Sorry,” he whispers. “I was trying not to wake you but I needed to turn up the heat.”

  I sigh with a bit of relief that he’s in the same bed as me.

  We kissed there by the window for a long time, but it didn’t go anywhere beyond that. I shivered from the cold, and he warmed me with his body, and we slept in the same bed as we clung to each other maybe for heat or maybe for love and comfort. It’s a step in the right direction, and at least I feel like there’s hope that we can get to the other side of this with our hands linked.

  Despite the comfort he’s giving me, though, my heart is racing and fear seems to be swimming in my veins where the blood used to be.

  Today’s the day.

  It’s been a little over two weeks since I read that letter for the first time, but it feels like it’s been forever as I search for answers to questions that I didn’t even know I had two weeks ago.

  I get up and bring a blanket with me. I pad over to the window and stare down at the beach.

  It’s covered in snow.

  It’s really odd to look out at the ocean and see a blanket of snow. Right at the water’s edge I can make out the golden creamy color of sand as the water rolling in licks the edges of the white, but the rest of the beach is pure, untouched beauty.

  I really should’ve thought about the potential for this sort of weather at this time of the year, but it didn’t dawn on either of us. We’re San Diegans at heart, and snow doesn’t typically figure into the equation.

  “You sure you know how to drive in snow?” I ask.

  He shrugs in the bed. “Sure.”

  “That’s comforting.” I head over toward my suitcase to find clothes for today.

  He chuckles. “Come back to bed.”

  “I’m going to take a shower. I’m up now and just want to get this over with.”

  “Okay,” he says softly. “Anything I can do?”

  Normally I’d want a muffin or something to start my day with some food, but I’m not real hungry this morning. “Maybe just hunt down some coffee while I get ready?”

  He nods. “Of course. I think they had some in the lobby.”

  I disappear into the bathroom and take my shower, and by the time I’m out and dressed, he’s back with a steaming cup of salvation. I mean coffee.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, and I take the first sip.

  “It’s cold as fuck out there,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “The front desk clerk said the temperature keeps dropping and that could make the roads icy.” He looks a little nervous.

  “Can you drive in ice?”

  He shrugs. “We’ll be okay.”

  I nod. I trust that he’ll take care of us, but just because I trust him doesn’t necessarily mean he can avoid patches of ice on the road.

  He takes a shower while I dry my hair and put on a little make-up, and then we’re ready.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  I shrug. “No, but yes.”

  He nods like he gets my contradiction—like he gets me—and then he grabs our bags. He tosses them in the truck and I go to the lobby to check out, even though we’ve both agreed we might come back here to stay another night depending on how things go today.

  And then, just like that, it’s time to go.

  Will was right—it’s cold as fuck out there. Twenty-four is way too chilly for this California girl, an unseasonably cold day for March but our reality today nonetheless.

  I hurry to the truck, my sensible Converse shoes getting soaked with wet snow in the process, and just before I’m about to climb in, I slip on a patch of ice and fall flat on my ass.

  I land in some packed down snow. It hurts for a second, but it could’ve been worse. I get up, my pride more hurt than anything else as I hope Will didn’t catch my spill.

  Once I slide into my seat, he blows that thought out of the water. “You okay?” He’s laughing at me as he tries to hide it, and my cheeks burn.

  “Fine,” I spit at him, and he doesn’t look at me as he fires up the car and types the address into the GPS.

  Six-point-two miles.

  Fourteen minutes.

  I’ll potentially meet the woman who sent me that letter in fourteen minutes.

  I’ll potentially learn the truth.

  Except six minutes into our trek, our entire plan is thrown completely off track.

  I’m staring out the window as the gray skies open and more snow starts to fall. It’s just flurries, but if it was warmer, the falling rain would match my gray mood.

  I’m not paying attention to the drive. I don’t really have to—Will has it under control.

  Except the car in front of him doesn’t seem to.

  Will slams on the brakes when the car seems to slow for no reason at all with a muttered, “Fuck.”

  Then, once more, but louder, “Fuck!” His left hand slams against the steering wheel and confusion then fear slam into me when the truck spins in what feels like unending circles.

  Around and around and around we go, a dizzying and horrific ride through this frozen, white, icy tundra, and I have no idea when I can get off this ride, when it’ll stop. What if it stops when we slam into a tree? What if it stops when we slam into another car?

  Icy fear grips my heart.

  My life seems to flash before my eyes, accompanied by images of all the important people who I won’t get to say goodbye to.

  My parents.

  Adam and Emily—together, smiling the night they got married.

  Will.

  Will smiling at me.

  Will’s turquoise eyes landing on mine.

  Will’s warm hand in mine. His mouth kissing me. His arms holding me. His warmth and his love and his laughter.

  But Will’s right here.

  I reach over and grab his hand and squeeze my eyes shut tight as I scream a bloodcurdling scream, the manifestation of my utter terror at how this ride will finally come to an end.

  And then, just like that, the truck skids to a stop.

  We’re not moving anymore.

  I didn’t feel an impact.

  Will’s wide eyes zero in on me. “Holy shit,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  I open my eyes, and we’re surrounded by white.

  Are we still alive?

  Certainly the first words I’d hear if I actually were dead wouldn’t be holy shit.

  Unless I went the wrong way...then maybe.

  My eyes pop open on a gasp as I heave in some air. I look around wildly for a second because what just happened still hasn’t quite hit me, and then I start to cry when my eyes find Will’s.

  He’s okay...I think.

  I’m okay...I think.

  “What? Are you hurt? What hurts? Did you hit your head?” He throws off his seatbelt and leans all the way across the center console to inspect me, wide turquoise eyes full of concern.

  “I’m okay,” I say through my sobs. “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.” I can’t say anything else. I think I might be going into a little bit of shock.

  He reaches fully across me with his left arm to brush my cheek, and when he does, he winces.

  “Fuuuuuuuck,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, my heart still racing.

  He jerks back into his seat. “My wrist,” he says. He holds his left wrist with his right hand
and rocks a little in his seat. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  “What happened?”

  “We hit some black ice when I slammed on my brakes,” he says.

  “I mean to your wrist.” I nod toward his injury that he’s pretending isn’t really an injury as I try to calm the erratic beating of my heart. My head hurts at the rush of sound by my ears and the thumping pulse of my heartbeat.

  “I hit the steering wheel as I tried to overcorrect and I must’ve hurt it with the force of the impact. It’ll be fine.”

  Someone knocks on my window, and I jump so high I actually hit my head on the ceiling of the truck. Will starts laughing, and I turn to him with a glare.

  “Are you guys okay?” the man who knocked asks once Will rolls down the window on my side.

  “We’re fine,” Will says.

  “I saw it all happen,” the man says. “Your truck looks fine. You got lucky that you just spun out.” He gestures to our right. “There’s trees that way and an ocean that way. You need any help?”

  Will shrugs. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do at this point. Do I file an insurance claim?”

  It’s a moment of clarity. He’s twenty-nine and doesn’t know what to do when his truck spins out, which would strike most people as another sign of his immaturity.

  But you know what?

  I don’t know what the fuck we’re supposed to do in this situation, either.

  We’re both riding on little sleep and a lot of time in the car and this emotional rollercoaster. But even if we had clarity and weren’t on this crazy ride, I still wouldn’t know what to do.

  The man takes a quick walk around the truck and Will joins him to inspect it, too. “Doesn’t seem to be any damage,” the man says. “You don’t need to file any claims. You got lucky, so just take it easy and slow. It wasn’t your fault, but black ice can be a real jerk.”

  “Thank you,” Will says to the man, and then the guy takes off. Will climbs back into the truck, and he winces when he uses his left hand to pull his door shut. “Fuck,” he says again.

  “All right, mister, you need to get that wrist checked out,” I say.

  “It’s fine,” he murmurs. He pulls his seatbelt on and puts the car in drive, merging back onto the fairly deserted road.

  And he doesn’t know it, but I’m quietly looking up urgent cares. I type in the address of the closest one on his phone because hell if I’m going to be the reason he doesn’t get his wrist checked out.

  He plays the fucking keyboards for a living, for crying out loud. If he broke or sprained his wrist, he needs treatment and maybe some pain meds.

  “What are you doing?” he demands as I finish typing the address.

  “Rerouting us.”

  “To where?” He’s a little snide in his response.

  “An urgent care.”

  He exhales loudly. “I told you I’m fine.”

  I roll my eyes. “You listen to me, William Rascowicz,” I say, pointing a threatening finger in his direction that’s actually not very threatening since my hands are still shaking from the near-accident. “I’m a nurse. I know what’s best in these situations, and you need to get that checked.” I glance over at his wrist. “It’s already swelling. Something’s wrong and you need to take care of your hands and arms. Those are your moneymakers.”

  “Whatever,” he mutters. “Fine. But only because you’re making me.”

  “Thank you,” I say simply because I get it. I see men fighting against going into my ER all the time, blaming their wives or girlfriends for making them go. But ten times out of ten, there’s a reason they’re there.

  “Why an urgent care and not an ER?” he asks.

  “Emergency rooms should be reserved for life-threatening emergencies,” I explain. I’ve seen too many cases of people with sunburns or a broken toe or a sprained finger who are taking up beds from people who need them—people who can’t breathe or are going into cardiac arrest or having seizures. “You’re not taking up an ER bed with a potential sprain or break. Not on my watch.”

  He nods. “Yes ma’am.”

  He pulls into the lot of the urgent care and stops fighting me, which tells me the pain must be pretty bad. We go in, I help him fill out the paperwork, and we wait.

  The waiting room is essentially empty except for one older gentleman who seems to know both ladies sitting at the front desk. A medical technician calls us back.

  “You want me to wait here?” I ask, and he shakes his head, pulling me up with his good hand and linking his fingers through mine as we head back to the exam room. The tech takes Will’s vitals, and then the physician’s assistant comes in our room to check out the injury.

  “Looks like a sprain to me,” the PA says. “But let’s run some X-rays just to be sure.”

  Will clears his throat as his eyes edge over to me. “How long will this take?”

  “It’ll be quick.” He taps some notes into his tablet and part of me is interested to see what he’s typing while the other part of me wants to be sure Will is okay. “We have a digital X-ray machine here on site. We’ll probably have you out of here in twenty minutes as long as we don’t get a rush of patients.”

  “Thanks,” Will says.

  I wait in the exam room while the PA takes Will to the X-ray room. True to his word, our wait is short. He shows us the image. “It’s a sprain,” he says, and even I can see that from the image. “You’ll need to RICE it. Rest, ice, compress, elevate. I’ll write you a prescription for some Fentanyl. You can take ibuprofen and acetaminophen for the pain as needed, too.”

  “I don’t need the prescription,” Will says, surprising me. The PA wraps his wrist as he rejects the medication, and when he’s done wrapping, Will jabs a thumb in my direction. “And she’s a nurse. She’ll take care of me.”

  The PA turns to me with interest, and then his eyes flick down to my chest with interest, too. It creeps me out. “You’re a nurse? Where at?”

  “In the ER at San Diego General,” I say.

  “Oh, wow. An ER nurse. How ‘bout them hours?” he says.

  I don’t really want to get into a conversation with this perv who wasn’t interested until he saw my chest, so I just say, “I work three days a week. What’s not to love?”

  He smiles, and he’s about to turn up the flirt when I interrupt him rather abruptly.

  “What else do we need to know about Will’s injury?” I shift my eyes over to Will.

  He looks a little butthurt that I redirected the conversation, but we’re not here to talk about what I do for a living. I’m not here to make small talk with someone I’ll never see again. I’m here to get medical care for the man I love.

  The PA fills us in on a few more details, and then we check out at the front desk.

  As soon as we’re back in the car, I ask, “Do you think this was fate’s way of telling us to slow down? Not to go to this address?”

  He looks surprised when my eyes meet his. He shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t think you believed in that fate bologna.”

  I lift a shoulder and mumble some non-response.

  “No,” he says softly. “I think it was fate’s way of telling me to trust you. You told me to get it checked, and it turned out to be sprained.” He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “You took care of me, and I feel like that’s a good start to getting back to where I need to be for this to work.”

  I take his hand in mine, bring his fingers to my lips, and kiss them. Our eyes meet across the small space, and for a long moment, we just gaze at each other.

  And then he pulls his hand away, starts the car, and we’re back on the road, only delayed by a couple of hours from where we began.

  But in those couple hours, there was a definite shift.

  CHAPTER 32: AMBER

  He parks the truck across the street from a modest house with the address matching the one on the envelope I hold in my hands. The front door is yellow.

  My chest is vibrating with ner
ves. My cold hands are shaking.

  I’m terrified of what’s behind that door.

  Either way, I lose.

  No matter the result, someone is lying. Either my dad has been lying to me my entire life or this letter is a lie.

  I guess in some ways, I’ve built up this idea that I’m about to meet my sister.

  You see long-lost relatives meeting on Oprah all the time—at least when she used to have a show. If Kylie knew what we were doing here, she’d definitely have sent an entire camera crew with us to capture these moments.

  I’m glad she doesn’t know.

  I’m glad nobody knows except for the two people sitting in this car across the street from a yellow door because I can’t do this.

  “I can’t do this.” I echo the words in my head. “Let’s just go home.” I stare at that damn yellow door, so unsure of what might be behind it.

  Will reaches over and links his fingers through mine. “You’re not alone,” he says as a reminder of our conversation last night. “I’m right here.”

  A tear rolls down my cheek, and he catches it before it splashes down onto the collar of my coat.

  “I’ve got you, Cookie,” he says quietly. I turn to glance at him, and my eyes lock on his. “We can do this. Together, we can do this.”

  His eyes are so full of love and promise and trust that I can’t help but agree. “Okay,” I say meekly, and then we get out of the car and march toward the front door, the letter clutched in one hand while the other grips Will’s.

  He squeezes my hand and lands a soft kiss on my lips. “You ready?”

  “No, but yeah,” I say, reminiscent of what I said this morning, and then he knocks on the door.

  We wait for someone to come answer, and I shiver as a blustery wind cuts through my coat and chills me to my core.

  We hear a dog barking—yapping, actually, which tells me it’s a small dog, and when the door swings open, a woman who shares a lot of similarities with my brother stands there. She’s holding a chihuahua in her arms and she wears glasses—which Adam doesn’t, and neither do I—but behind them are brown eyes that match ours. Her hair is dark like Adam’s, too, and she has high cheekbones and a straight nose like him.