I shook my head as I hung up the gas pump. Then I slid back into the car and readied myself for the longest two-hour journey of my life.
“None for me?” Abby asked.
Panning my head toward her, I felt the words settling on the tip of my tongue. If this woman knew what was best for her, she’d sit back and keep her mouth shut for the rest of this drive.
“No,” I said plainly.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because I’m not your cash cow.”
I could feel her eyes on me as I settled my coffee into the cup holder. I cranked up the car and slowly pulled back out onto the road, watching her in my peripheral vision. She was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read, and I was hoping my statement would finally shut her mouth.
But I was dead wrong on that account.
“You’re angry,” she said.
“And you’re talkative.”
“You didn’t have an issue with it before,” she said.
“I’ve always had an issue with how talkative you are. I figured my spilling my guts would’ve tapered that down, but apparently not.”
“So, you didn’t open up because you wanted to?” she asked.
“No.”
“Wow. Okay. You know what I think?”
“What?” I asked.
“I think you’re pissed off because I told you to lighten up.”
“You think?” I asked. “What brought you to that wild and intelligent deduction?”
“You don’t have to be patronizing,” she said. “And this right here reinforces my point. You’re too wound up.”
“And after I told you everything I did, the best advice you’ve got for me is to lighten up?”
“I’m not a sage,” she said.
“Then stop acting like one,” I said. “Stop giggling and singing and trying to be everyone’s wise old friend, then skirt by your own problems when someone wants you to reciprocate an action in response to theirs. You want me to lighten up? Then string some lights up around my head and turn them on. Being who I am is what got me to the successful place I am, and I guarantee you being as laid back as you are got you to where you’re currently sitting. Unable to buy yourself a cup of coffee. So while I might be high-strung, I don’t hate my life. Take it for what it’s worth.”
The words spewed from my mouth before I could catch them, and I could see Abby melting into her seat. Her gaze hung on me for quite some time as we rode down the highway, and I simply kept my eyes trained on the road in front of me. The snow plows were no longer in sight, and the road in front of me was only slushed, so I picked up my speed to get us into Minnesota quicker.
And still, there was no word from Abby.
I upset her, and I knew I did. I chanced a gaze in her direction, but she was staring out the passenger side window. Her arms were folded over her chest, and she was snuggled up with the door, trying to get as far away from me as she could.
Taking a risk, I reached down and turned on the radio. I simply wanted quiet. Not this kind of tension. I tried a compromise and turned on the radio to Christmas music, hoping it would lift her spirits a bit. I knew I’d be in for some awful singing, but it would be better than the silence we were riding in now. This terribly uncomfortable silence.
But instead, the Christmas music filled the car while Abby kept silent. She wasn’t singing. She wasn’t dancing. She wasn’t even tapping her foot.
Not only had I made her upset, but I’d pulled from her that Christmas spirit or whatever it was. She was silent and kind of absent. Like she’d slipped into her mind and was lost in her thoughts. Part of me was relieved she wasn’t talking, but part of me was worried. I was wondering what types of memories she was swimming through and curious as to how they impacted her.
Abby was apparently an all or nothing sort of woman, and right now, she was giving me absolutely nothing.
“Abby?” I asked.
But all I was met with was silence.
“Abby, come on. This isn’t fair.”
“What isn’t?” she asked.
“You can’t lead me to believe that you don’t understand why I’m upset,” I said.
“Sure. I get it.”
“You’re more than welcome to sing to the radio, if you’d like.”
“Thanks for the permission, Dad,” she said.
“Abby.”
“It’s insane,” she said, snickering. “You’re even scolding me with that kind of voice.”
“What kind of voice?”
“That low rumble that fathers have when their children disappoint them,” she said. “It wasn’t my decision for you to just spew your life out like that. And I’m not wrong. You’re too high-strung. I don’t know you well enough to tell you how to not be high-strung. I just know that’s what you need to do. Your boxers ride up too much or something.”
“My boxers?” I asked, grinning.
“Or briefs. Or those combination things men wear nowadays.”
“You mean you don’t remember the kind I wear?” I asked. “Must’ve been a poor encounter.”
I could see her cheeks flushing as a grin crawled across my cheeks.
“You think I talk too much,” she said.
“I think you’re a lot of things. Overly cheery. Naive. Unprepared for bad circumstances in life. But we’re all a lot of things. I’m high-strung and a workaholic. I don’t enjoy the holidays, and
