“All right,” Harper says and then she shakes her head. “No, you should come up here. Brecken can move to the back seat.”

He scoffs. “You want the two biggest people in the back?”

“I want the person who’s carsick and upset about losing her phone up here. And I’m still not thrilled with the fact that you committed a crime while driving a vehicle rented in my name.”

Brecken moves, but it’s clear he isn’t happy about it. When Harper asks about directions, he offers a vague “Head south and west” and refuses to engage in more detail. So Harper pulls out, turning south on the road that brought us here.

Five minutes into the drive, I’m not sure if it matters that I’m in the front seat. Brecken gets over his silent treatment and embarks on an endless journey of back-seat-driving commentary. His constant nagging is making me just as sick as the drive did earlier.

“You need to watch that hill,” he says.

Harper nods. “I’ve got it.”

“Try tapping the brakes. Just light taps.”

“We’re fine,” she says.

“Maybe you’re fine. I feel like I’m being driven around by a fourteen-year-old.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Brecken thrusts his hand between the front seats between us, gesturing back and forth at the windshield and the road beyond. “You’re all over the road here.”

“I am not.”

“You’re hugging the outside of every corner and accelerating into the turns. We’re going to wind up in a ditch.”

“You’re going to wind up in a ditch,” Harper mutters.

Josh and I laugh, and Brecken bristles. “Yeah, ha ha ha.”

“Ease up, man,” Josh says. “She’s not the one who’s already been in a wreck.”

“What are you talking about? Do you seriously think what happened on the bridge was my fault?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Harper says quickly. “It could have been worse.”

“It could be better, though,” I say, a sigh slipping out with my words. “Like if we were home. That would be better.”

“What would you be doing if you were home right now?” Josh asks.

“Kayla would be sleeping,” Brecken mutters. “You?”

“Reading probably.”

“Reading on holidays?” I ask him.

Josh shrugs. “On all days.”

“We watch holiday shit,” Brecken says. “Old ones. National Lampoons, Elf. If it’s got jingle bells or Yule logs or anything like that, Dad will force us to sit through it. Which is ridiculous.”

“Why is it ridiculous?” Harper asks.

“We’re Jewish.”

“Wait, don’t you celebrate Hanukkah?” I ask.

“Hell, we celebrate everything. Mom has decorations for Saint Patrick’s Day. She’d invent holidays if she could.”

Harper laughs and Brecken nudges her seat playfully. “All right, what about you?”

“I’d be writing cards and letters. I do it every holiday.”

“Like real letters?” Brecken says. “Handwritten?”

“The best kind,” she says.