Row
The doors to the Silverado slammed behind us. Cal immediately reached to turn on the radio. I covered the volume knob with my palm before she could touch it. “We need to talk.”
“Why?” she moaned. “We get along so much better when we don’t.”
“We get along best on different continents,” I grumbled, ready to be done with the conversation before we’d begun.
She c****d her head, turning her entire body to look at me, the seat belt clasped inside her little hand. She breathed out a tired sigh, letting her head fall backward. “Please don’t fire me. I just earned thirteen hundred bucks in tips and I think I might actually be able to afford renting some recording equipment when I get back to New York. I could finally start my business. I’ve been dreaming of starting a podcast since I wa—”
