Chapter 3: Pickups and Mishaps

Right after the call, my phone buzzed with a Venmo notification: $700 from Em. Her message was short and sweet—"Don’t tell Mom and Dad." I almost laughed at the hush money, replying with a zipped-mouth emoji.

She texted Lauren’s number with a winking face. [Behave yourself, or I’ll double the hush money.]

I added Lauren and sent my location. Her reply was just one word: "Okay." No emoji, no fuss—her style as calm as her smile.

I waited outside, the parking lot a patchwork of empty rental cars and flickering sodium lights. The air was thick, my mind wandering through every possible awkward scenario. I didn’t really want Lauren to pick me up, but I was stuck.

To pass the time, I squatted down and played Candy Crush, the artificial sound effects blending with the distant hum of cleaning crews. Over half an hour slipped by before a white Porsche pulled up in front of me.

"Zach Carter?" The window rolled down, and there she was—Lauren. Her hair was pulled back, not a strand out of place, and she wore a simple navy blouse that made her look older, untouchable. The seats were buttery soft, the car still smelling faintly of new leather and vanilla air freshener.

Time had turned us both into adults, but seeing her up close, I felt like a nervous kid again. My hands were clammy, suitcase handle squeaking as I picked it up. For a second, I flashed back to the old high school forum joke: [Central High’s queen, Lauren Mitchell—dangerously beautiful.]

She caught me staring. "Are your legs numb?" she asked, voice confident but amused. I jumped up, nearly dropping my phone, and scrambled to my feet, heart pounding.

Unsure how to address her, I hesitated—by name? Too casual. Miss Mitchell? Ridiculous. My face turned red, and Lauren’s lips curled into a gentle, not-mocking laugh.

She got out of the car—white dress, graceful, elegant. I felt like a background character in someone else’s movie. Her presence was magnetic; I unconsciously stepped back.

"Don’t recognize me?" she teased. I nodded so fast I probably looked like a bobblehead.

"I do, I do," I managed.

She reached for my bag, but I insisted on carrying it, clumsy chivalry winning out. She let me, maybe out of pity. She opened the passenger door: "Hop in."

"Thanks," I mumbled, cheeks burning. I sat stiffly, hands folded, trying not to touch anything. My mind replayed every embarrassing thing I’d ever done in her presence.

Lauren put on soft music—John Mayer, I think—and started a conversation. Her voice was light, asking about my flight and plans back home, smoothing over the tension.

Mid-chat, her phone rang—a guy’s name flashed. She muted it, unfazed. I caught a glimpse: "Chris." Whoever he was, he could wait.

Just then, my buddy Tyler sent a string of voice messages. I tried to convert them to text, but hit the wrong button. Suddenly, his voice blared through the car: [Bro, my girlfriend is actually allergic to saliva!]

I wanted to melt into the floor mats. If the seatbelt could have strangled me, I’d have let it. I fumbled, the phone dropping to my feet as Tyler’s voice kept going: "The ice-cold goddess I chased for so long—who could’ve guessed she’d stop halfway? So beautiful, but I can only look, can’t touch. You have to try with your girlfriend first, or you’ll end up like me. My heart aches. Am I supposed to be in a platonic relationship for life?"

Each sentence made me want to shrink into the seat. I finally grabbed the phone and killed the audio, my face on fire.

Lauren was quiet, a faint, private smile tugging at her lips. I shrank against the door, staring out the window as the city lights flickered by—billboards for BBQ and law firms blurring together.

At a red light, Lauren broke the silence. "Is your girlfriend still that one from high school?"

I froze, surprised she remembered. "No. I don’t have a girlfriend."

My mind flashed back to that day in the school cafeteria—the noise, the scent of tater tots and bleach, plastic trays clattering. My sister spotted me with a clingy girl and stormed over, shouting, "Aren’t you the one who spread rumors that I was dating three guys at once? Why are you hanging on my dumb brother?" Heads turned as my sister and the girl started shoving, trays crashing, juice spilling. All I could do was wave my hands and try to calm them down. Lauren had arrived just as chaos peaked, cool and steady, helping me up off the floor and shooting both girls a look that said, "Grow up already." The fight stopped instantly.

Back in the present, Lauren kept the conversation light, steering clear of anything embarrassing. When we finally got home, I bolted from the car, muttering a rushed thank you and feeling like I was twelve again.