Not the vehicle I pictured Kayla Turner driving.

I expected a Cadillac. Or at least something with nice rims and tinted windows. Nothing about Kayla’s appearance or possessions or behavior makes sense anymore.

“Don’t judge,” she says as she unlocks the doors.

“I wasn’t judging.”

“You’re worse than that couple back there. I can feel the judgment rolling off of you,” she says bitterly. “Not everyone can afford to speed around in a Porsche.”

“Trust me,” I say. “I know.”

All too well.

She heads for the driver’s side as I head for the passenger’s side and we grunt as the handcuffs pull tight against our wrists as we move in opposite directions.

She sighs in frustration. “Okay. Let’s not be dumb about this. Why don’t you get in on the driver’s side and climb over to the passenger seat. Then I can get in behind you and drive.”

Heading to the driver’s door, I duck inside the car and awkwardly crawl over the center console, my elbows and knees knocking into the dashboard.

“Ow.”

“Watch it.”

“I can’t fit—”

“Ugh. Quit yanking my wrist.”

“Quit yanking my wrist.”

Her car is a disaster. Books. Socks. Bottles of hair care products. There’s crap everywhere. I carefully wade through the minefield of girl mess until I reach the other side. Then, folding my body up like an accordion, I finally manage to squeeze down into the passenger seat.

Kayla climbs in after me and says, “Real smooth.”

I flex my jaw. “I’m six feet tall and your car is the size of a marshmallow. The fact that I fit inside it at all is a miracle, let alone defeating the center console obstacle course you have set up here. What is this, a water bottle?” I hold up a giant plastic thermos. “It’s the size of a sink.” I point to the many other items she has crammed into the console cup holders draped over the seats. Sunglasses. A nursing uniform. A pair of sandals. A diner name tag. “What’s happening here?” I say. “Are you undercover? Suffering from multiple identities?”

She points at me. “Lay off my mess. I just drove eighteen hundred miles cross-country and didn’t plan to have any passengers. If you have a problem with the contents of my ‘marshmallow’ car then we can always crawl into your pretentious little Porsche.” She arches an eyebrow. “What’s it going to be, cowboy?”

“Cowboy?” I pull back. “Well that just makes no sense at all. It’s not like I was yee-hawing or tipping my hat at you.”

She moves to exit the car. “Pretentious Porsche it is.”

“Okay, okay.” I hold up my hands, yanking her attached wrist up with mine. “I’m sorry. Your messy car is perfectly fine. I happen to be a big fan of…” I look around at the clutter. “Granola bar wrappers and packing tape.” Her eyes narrow and I flash her a broad smile. “I’m kidding. Now would you please just drive?” She doesn’t move so I lift our cuffs and merrily say, “The sooner we get the inheritance the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”

She starts the car.

I hold my wrist by the steering wheel as Kayla uses both hands to back out of the parking spot. She shifts into gear and pulls out onto the main road before lowering her cuffed wrist to the center console and driving with one hand. I place my attached wrist beside hers as we drive in silence. Her hand looks small and delicate next to mine.

“So…” I say, feeling the need to make conversation and break the tension from the tangible annoyance she feels toward me. “It was a beautiful funeral.”

She inhales. “I guess.”

“I was kind of surprised to see you there.”

She keeps her eyes on the road. “Why? He was my father.”

I shrug. “Yeah, but you didn’t bother to visit him when he was sick, as far as I know, so I just figured you wouldn’t bother with the funeral either.”

She cuts her eyes to mine and something flashes in their blue depths. Something vulnerable and hurt. “I didn’t bother to visit because my father didn’t bother to tell me he was sick.” Just as quickly as it appeared, the spark of emotion melts into bitterness and she glares back at the road.

I furrow my brow. “Really?”

“Really,” she says sharply. A beat passes. “My own father didn’t care enough about me to let me know that he was dying. And as far as the funeral is concerned, I came because I needed closure.” Her voice wavers with emotion and she clears her throat. “I was surprised to see you at the funeral—alone. From the stories I heard growing up, I assumed Daren Ackwood always traveled with a flock of large-breasted groupies.”

I grin at the superiority in her tone. “Are you jealous you were never in my flock?”

She gives me a sugar-sweet smile. “I pity all the brainless hens who were.”

I let out a small laugh. “Sure you do.” My smile fades. “But with the funeral… I didn’t exactly feel like company. So no hens for me.”

She glances at me and I look away, my chest tightening as I stare out the window. Turner and I didn’t grow close until after he and Kayla were estranged, so there’s no way she’d understand how important he was to me. Not that I’d try to explain it to her. I doubt any explanation I gave would do justice to my relationship with him anyway.

I wouldn’t know where to begin. His importance in my life grew so slowly, so quietly, that pinpointing the exact moment he became a crucial part of who I am is impossible. My first memory with James Turner was when I was eleven and I tagged along when he and my dad were golfing together. Turner accidentally hit a ball into a tree and asked me to go get it because, and I quote, he was “an old man.” I teased him for that and addressed him as Old Man Turner for the rest of the day. The name sort of stuck and I continued to call him Old Man Turner as I got older, even though he was always very youthful and energetic. I think he liked the nickname because it made him feel special. And he was.

He was like a father to me—a good one, which is why I hold so much resentment for Kayla turning her back on him.

“Can I ask you something?” I scratch my jaw as we drive along. “What happened with you and your dad? Why did you stop talking to him?”

She furrows her brow. “I didn’t stop talking to him. He stopped participating in my life.”

I let the silence hang between us and wait.

Marcella once told me that the best place to have a conversation with someone is in a car or in the dark. Because when no one is required to make eye contact, people feel safer and are, therefore, more honest.

I never gave much thought to Marcella’s claim. Until now.

“He was supposed to come out to Chicago for my sixteenth birthday,” Kayla continues, spilling her story. “I was ecstatic and couldn’t wait to see him. But he didn’t come,” she says simply. “He didn’t call or write to tell me he wasn’t coming. He just didn’t show up. There I was, waiting by the door in my yellow birthday dress, and he was back here in Arizona not giving a damn about me. I cried for days.”

I open my mouth to speak but can’t find anything to say. It’s hard to believe James Turner would miss his only daughter’s sixteenth birthday. Especially since he remembered mine and gave me a present—and not just any present; an old pocket watch that had belonged to his grandfather. A family heirloom.

This is valuable to me, Turner had said, handing it to me. Be careful with it.

It looked expensive with a bronze chain and a turquoise centerpiece, and the face smoothed over with age.

I shook my head at him. I can’t take that. I don’t deserve such a gift. And besides, it belongs to your family.

He locked eyes with me and waited until he had my full attention. Then he smiled. Gifts are not things that you earn or deserve. They are a way for the giver to show their appreciation for you. And Daren—his eyes glimmered—you are a part of my family.

His words held more weight than any others I’d ever heard but I was too young and foolish to come up with any reply other than Thanks.