“Ugh. You really do live in the ’80s.” I’m tempted to snatch it away and chuck it out on the highway. But knowing smokers, that won’t stop him.

  “Please, I wish.”

  With an emphatic eye roll, I climb back in the Jeep and slam the door shut. Not that it matters now, or maybe ever, but it would’ve been nice to know I’d be traveling with a smoker. Even if said smoker is talented and gorgeous. After another minute, he gets in, squeezing the squished cigarette butt between his fingers. The stench of tobacco fills the cabin. He chucks the butt in his nearly empty bodega cup and secures the lid.

  “Well, at least you’re not a litterbug,” I say.

  “Hey, smokers are people too,” he says in a sarcastically solemn tone. He probably thinks I’m one of those health snobs. Or worse, a vegan.

  “I know,” I say, reaching for the crank to roll my window down like I’m back in my dad’s 1981 Laredo. But there’s no handle. Just a set of automatic buttons that are supposed to make life so easy. The window lowers with a slight hum and soon road noise floods inside.

  “I found a shop a few miles away so you can repair that puncture,” I say. “Probably a good idea to have a spare, don’t you think?”

  Nick starts the engine. “Be prepared for anything, right?”

  Twelve

  It’s been years since I’ve stepped foot in a mom-and-pop auto repair shop. A perk of being a carless New Yorker. I slowly inhale the unmistakable grease-rubber odor blend with hints of sweat and I note all of the common features. Like a nearly empty vending machine in the corner that looks like it was born in the Reagan years. A handful of faded burgundy tweed banquet chairs that were probably snagged from a church yard sale. An old tube TV screening Judge Judy. No volume, of course, just boxy subtitles across the screen. Then there’s the guy behind the counter in his navy blue work shirt with a name patch above the pocket, listening to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” low on the radio while a dusty oscillating fan breezes behind him.

  I spent my childhood in a place just like this because my dad couldn’t afford childcare. Doing my homework in the break room after school. Playing penny poker on the concrete floor with my surrogate uncles. And drinking as much Coke machine cola as I could stand (God, how I loved that thunking sound when the can dropped into the dispenser). It’s a miracle I didn’t end up with Jack Sparrow’s mouth.

  That part of my life is long gone. Some people like to cruise down memory lane; for me it’s more like rush hour on “the 5” in Los Angeles—a nightmare. Or so I’ve heard. I take a deep breath but my throat grows thick. Maybe after all these years I’ve developed an allergy to auto shop fumes. “I think I’m gonna wait outside,” I say.

  “You mean you don’t want to boss this guy around too?” Nick jokes.

  I muster a tiny chuckle. “You’re a big boy now. I think you can handle this one.”

  Outside, I breathe in the sweltering Jersey air. This is supposed to be a fresh start for me. Swear to God, this is the most I’ve thought about my dad since I left Texas. With all these freaking father reminders, it’s like my past is coming back to haunt me. Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts.

  A few minutes later, Nick’s voice sneaks up behind me. “Looks like we’ve got about an hour to kill. You want some lunch?”

  “I could eat.” If I’m being honest, I can always eat. Especially if it gets me away from this place. “I think I saw a Five Guys up the street.”

  He does a bro chin nod. “You a burger girl?”

  “No,” I say. “I am the burger girl.”

  * * *

  —

  While we wait in line, I lean against the checkered wall. “You’re buying, right?”

  “Why? You think we’re on a date or something?” He rests his arm on the wall above me like we’re flirting in front of my high school locker. Part of me wants to lean in. The other part is repulsed by the lingering smoke on his breath.

  I step aside, pushing my glasses up the slope of my nose. “Is this a place you’d take a girl on a first date?”

  “Maybe, if she was a burger girl.” Now isn’t that cute?

  “Well, I did save you the roadside assistance fee and the time it would take for them to tow your car to the shop. Not to mention, I taught you how to change a tire.”

  “Is this a lawyer thing? Billing me for every little thing you do.”

  That’s one way to look at it. The other is that I’m now in a lower tax bracket and have to save my pennies where I can. At least for a little while. “Please, a burger and fries are a fraction of my attorney fees.”

  Nick holds his hands up. “Whoa, whoa. Fries? Now you’re just taking advantage of me.”

  I shrug. “Fair’s fair, my friend.”

  “I’ll tell you what, I’ll get this one and you can get the next one.” Mm-hmm, typical guy. He got what he wanted out of me and now he won’t put out . . . the money, I mean.

  “Throw in a milkshake and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I say.

  “Done.” Nick offers his hand and, I swear, pulls me closer. Maybe an inch, but still. I think back to one of Imani’s don’t go on tour arguments—Are you sure this guy isn’t just trying to get in your pants? My first thought was What’s wrong with that? But instead I asked if she was implying that I’m not funny enough to feature on the road and of course she backpedaled from there. But seriously, Nick doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have any trouble with the ladies (not like some of the other comics I know). So I put any malicious suspicion out of my mind.

  While our burgers are on the grill and our fries are drowning in peanut oil, we find an empty table to wait. “I’ve never traveled with a feature before,” he says. Based on what I know about road comics, our road trip is somewhat unorthodox. At least for his level. And now mine.

  “Neither have I.” I take a long sip of my chocolate milkshake. The chilled cream helps cool me down.

  Nick stares out the window like he’s looking for someone or something. “You know, being stuck in Jersey is my worst nightmare.”

  “Not a fan of the Garden State?” I ask.

  “Nope, that’s why I ran away to the city.”

  “Funny you should say that. My roommate thinks I’m running away on this tour.” I’m not sure why I just said that so casually. It’s like I’ve cracked open a door for him when there’s nothing to see.

  “Why’s that?” Nick asks. And why wouldn’t he?

  “I’m not sure. I think it has something to do with the fact that I just left my job.”

  “Oh.” Uh-oh, he’s got that concerned expression like Imani and Barista Brenda. So much for escaping that look.

  “Yeah, it’s time for me to take the next step in my stand-up career. And so far, so good. I got this gig with you and an audition for The Late Night Show, which I’m sure will open a lot of doors for me. Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, assuming you get it.”

  “Oh, I’m getting it,” I say.

  He stares at me for a moment like he’s amused or maybe intrigued. “And what makes you so sure?”

  “Because no one wants it as much as me.” I flash him a playful toothy grin.

  “And who’s gonna say no to you.”

  “Exactly. Have you ever done The Late Night Show?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, tapping his fingers on the table to the beat of the song playing in the background. “But I have done other late-night television shows. I even have a thirty-minute special on The Comedy Channel.”

  Boom! My mind is blown. “Wow, really? What’s it called?”

  “Born to Run,” he says.

  “Why’d you call it that?”

  “You’ll have to watch it one day to find out,” he says, toying with me. I’ve got to see this special. “Anyway, it was a while ago.”

  “That must have been an incredible experience.”

  Nick shrugs modestly or uncomfortably. I can’t decide. At that moment, our food arrives at our table. The smell of Cajun fries tantalizes my nose. Mmm. I salivate like a dog about to chow down after waiting by the door for ten hours for someone to come home and feed him. I unwrap my burger and wet my lips before diving in. My teeth sink into the bread, through the tomato, onions, pickles, and cheese, down to the juicy beef patty. I manage to squeeze a hot fry in my mouth and let out a satisfactory moan. “Now we’re even,” I say.

  He stuffs his face with a bite rivaling mine. “Oh, yeah?” For the minutes following, we don’t say a word, just munch on our lunch. Finally, he comes up for air. “I always forget about this place. I’m partial to Shake Shack.”

  I nod, thinking of my last ShackBurger with Imani. “Shake Shack’s pretty good.”

  “Pretty good? It’s the best.”

  “Eh,” I say with a mouth full of the sweet-and-salty combo of shake and fries. Now that’s the best.

  “Are you some kinda self-proclaimed burger aficionado?” he asks, and I take another big bite, smiling with stuffed cheeks. “You got a top pick?”

  The first rule of being a burger aficionado is to know where to get the best burger. For me, there’s no question. It’s the only reason I’m looking forward to crossing the Texas border. I’ve already mapped out the locations near both comedy venues. “Definitely Whataburger.”

  He wipes his mouth with a flimsy, grease-stained napkin. “What the hell’s a Whataburger?”

  “Oh, you don’t know about them Texas burgers?” I say, doused with Southern sass.

  “Is that where you’re from?” he asks, and I swallow hard, nodding. “Then how come you don’t have a hee-haw accent?”

  I nearly spit out my beef with a laugh. “Excuse me? Hee-haw?”

  “Yeah, you know, You dumbass Yankee, don’t even know how to change a tire,” he says, a dead ringer for Blanche from The Golden Girls. Not bad. For a Yankee anyway.

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Where’d you learn to change a tire anyway?”

  My head must be flooded with dopamine from the free meal because without hesitation I spill a snippet from my past. “By-product of being a mechanic’s daughter.”

  Thirteen

  The steady hum of the road adds another raw quality to Nick’s classic rock radio. He keeps inching up the volume. It’s been about an hour since Nick and I picked up the spare tire after stuffing our faces with greasy fast food. With a full belly, I could really use a post-meal road nap. I’m talking cheek suctioned to the window, string of drool dangling from the corner of my mouth kinda nap. But I’m here to work. So I’ll be a good little comedian and draft up some new material, which feels a little impossible with Def Leppard’s “Photograph” blasting.

  “No wonder you’re a road comic. You have the musical taste of a truck driver,” I holler over the guitar solo.

  Even with his sunglasses, I can see him give me a sideways glance. “And I suppose you’re a fan of who? Britney Spears?”

  “And proud of it.”

  He smiles and lowers the volume. “You should listen up. They don’t make music like this anymore.”

  “And there’s probably a good reason for that.” I don’t actually mind ’70s and ’80s rock. I grew up on the stuff. Though I can’t say I know anyone my age who swears by it. “Where are we anyway?” I ask, glancing at his GPS.

  “Somewhere near Cherry Hill, I think.” Nick yawns and I press my lips together, willing myself not to catch the contagious act. “Whatchu been doin’ over there? Preparing a legal brief?”

  I glance down at the half sentence scribbled on my yellow lined sheet with the curled corner edges. “Yeah, I’m planning to sue you for radio control inequality.”

  “Then you should’ve done a better job negotiating,” he says. A valid point. So far I only got one play—Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.”

  Nick takes his eyes off the road for a moment and glances at my nearly empty sheet. “Seriously. What are you working on?”

  “Work is a little strong. I’m trying to write a new joke every day. You know, like Jerry Seinfeld.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks.

  “You’ve never heard that before? Every day Jerry would write a new joke and mark an X on his calendar, creating a never-ending chain. That’s how he got so good. He never broke the chain.” Seinfeld’s a king of comedy. And legend has it, this little anecdote is his method of success. And that’s something I could use right now.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s a myth. It’s been debunked.”

  “Really?” My heart breaks a little, like the time I found out there’s no Easter bunny. Not as devastating as learning there’s no Santa, but still.

  “Afraid so. And Jerry’s not like us. He doesn’t need to write every day to be good. He’s just good. Same with Dave Chappelle. Good practice though.” He pats my shoulder like an encouraging Little League coach. “Speaking of Seinfeld. I was thinking you and I might have a little Jerry-and-Elaine thing going.”

  “Because you’re a headlining comedian and I’m a strong, independent, and hilariously funny woman?” I offer.

  “That and I like you.” Did he just say he likes me? Ohmigod. He was flirting with me at the burger place! “I think we can be buddies. For real.” Buddies?

  Womp, womp.

  Nothing cools a crush like getting friend-zoned. A boner killer for sure.

  “So you’re not of the mind that men and women can’t be friends?” I ask, as if giving him one last opportunity to admit he’s attracted to me too.

  His brow knits like he’s not following the Billy Crystal reference. “No. Who said that?”

  “Nora Ephron and Rob Reiner. You never saw When Harry Met Sally?”

  “Is that the one with the fake orgasm scene at Katz’s Deli?” he asks.

  I wish I could have what she was having. “Yeah, that movie’s nearly thirty years old and men still don’t know when we’re faking it.”

  Nick gasps. “Olivia, have you committed fraudulent orgasms?”

  “Sure, when it’s getting late and I just want to get some sleep.” This poor guy doesn’t know the half of it. And if we’re just friends, then he never will. Oh, well . . .

  “That’s a quote from Seinfeld, right?” He spits out a chuckle. “Olivia, you’re the Elaine of my dreams.”

  Well, that’s something, I guess.

  * * *

  —

  After a couple more hours of listening to Bon Jovi and Cheap Trick, we arrive at our nation’s capital. Nick navigates us around the convoluted exits and loopy streets. We’re not actually staying in D.C., but just outside of it in Arlington, Virginia.

  He turns into an apartment complex of two-story brick buildings. I marvel at the tall shady trees, freshly cut turf, and row of shrubs beneath the first-floor windows. Growing up in the dusty plains of Texas and now living in a concrete jungle, I’m not used to seeing so much green.

  He pulls the Jeep into a space and yanks up the parking brake. “Home sweet home.”

  I lean forward, gazing up at the building. “So this is a comedy condo, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  Comedy condos are a notorious part of road-comic life. Or so I’ve heard. The clubs save money on motels by housing all their talent in an apartment. These condos have a remarkably seedy reputation but this place inspires a friendly feel, especially with the little squirrels chasing each other up a tree trunk. Perhaps this comedy condo is the exception to the rule. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

  “You haven’t been inside yet.”

  I gulp hard at his foreboding inflection, imagining something in the same vein as a frat house after a wild kegger. “Is it really filthy?”

  “Eh,” he utters, considering this. “It’s not so much the filth you can see, it’s more the filth you can’t see.”

  My mind quickly goes to bedbugs—or as I like to call them, spawns of the devil. “Can you elaborate?”

  “I’d rather not. But let’s just say I wouldn’t use a black light in there.”

  “Ugh.” I cringe and consider sleeping in Nick’s Jeep tonight. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Yeah, don’t eat the mayonnaise.”

  Nick gets out of the car and slams the door shut as I’m left to my own conclusions of what that could possibly mean. I let out a nervous breath and grab my phone, typing out the text I promised Imani when I arrived.

  OLIVIA: Made it to D.C. safe and sound. It’s going GREAT!

  I’m not sure the trip here warrants all caps but the more she believes this is the right move, the better.

  Nick unloads the luggage from the back with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “I’m gonna need to charge you a handling fee. Your suitcase is ridiculous. You want this?” He holds out my puffy garbage bag, looking like a garbage man himself.

  I take it and pull up the handle on my luggage. “How many of those do you smoke a day?”

  “As many as I want.”

  Spoken like a true addict. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. As we wheel our things over to the first-floor apartment, my stomach knots anticipating what’s inside. Whatever it is, I have to take it. This is real comedy life. He finds a key under the flimsy doormat. Not a safety issue at all. “So I take it this apartment doesn’t have Secret Service detail,” I say.

  “Relax, Olivia.” Nick leads us into the dim and musty apartment. A puff of smoke rises into the air with a wheezy cough trailing behind it.

  “Oh, hey, man,” Nick says.

  I push up my frames and peek around his shoulders. A guy wearing a pair of board shorts and a white tank top sits on a brown thrift store couch gripping on to a yellow bong. Who’s this dude? I reach around my bag for my fresh pepper spray can. As a wise fellow Midlander once said, “Fool me once, shame on—shame on you . . . Fool me, I can’t get fooled again.”