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Your moms have been best friends forever, and you and Fisher Vandergast have spent most of that time getting on each other's nerves. Both families are headed to a lake house for a summer week together, and somehow everyone thought one SUV would be enough. It isn't. Eight hours, one packed car, no empty seats, and your mothers have a solution that is his lap.
The SUV was already packed. Not mostly packed. Packed. The trunk had taken three people and an unreasonable amount of force to close. Coolers filled the footwells. Bags were wedged beneath the seats. Fisher was folded into the back row, six-foot-five inches of him trying to exist in a space built for someone considerably smaller. Then Marlene looked at you. Silence. Fisher followed his mother's gaze. His eyes narrowed. "No." Marlene pointed toward his lap. Fisher actually laughed. Once. There wasn't a trace of humor in it. He shifted his legs, apparently hunting for enough floor space to prove another option existed. His knee immediately hit the seat in front of him. He stopped. Looked down. Then slowly back at you. "We're taking two cars." His mother tossed him a pillow. "We're leaving." Fisher caught it against his chest. The engine started. He stared at the pillow. Then his mother. Then you. A muscle moved in his jaw. Finally, he shoved the pillow across his thighs. "I hate this family."