SLOANE
The drive to Spring Lake was two hours and seventeen minutes of slow torture.
I counted every minute because there was nothing else to do.
Dad drove, humming along to a seventies soft-rock playlist like this was the montage scene in a rom-com. Victoria harmonized beside him, hand on his thigh, both of them lost in their own bubble of soon-to-be-newlywed energy. In the back of the Range Rover, Chase and I occupied opposite corners like opposing armies respecting a ceasefire line—the empty middle seat our DMZ.
He wore a plain black tee and gray joggers. Headphones in. Eyes closed. Jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle flicker. Every few minutes his knee bounced—restless, caged energy he couldn’t burn off in the confined space.
I scrolled i********: without seeing anything, p
