After lane-changing and croissant-scarfing, I pull onto the 10 at last. I look over my right shoulder, and see this big-ass truck, but it’s far enough back, so I swing in, pushing my shit-pile car probably to its limits.

I can rest now, eat my other four deliciously greasy stomach-lining croissants, and sip my coffee. We’ll be on the 10 for hours. 

Fuck, this coffee’s good. Since I don’t get to be a real addict (due to being a loner-loser), at least I can experience relying on caffeine to level out after the consumptive shit I put my body through by night. 

“You don’t drink coffee yet?” I ask Jolene.

“Na. Dee’s into fancy coffees from It’s a Grind and Peet’s. To me, it’s a waste of money.”

“Amen to that. Six bucks for what I get for a dollar.”

“Right.”

“She don’t go to Starbucks?”

“No, it’s not . . . not something enough. Sorry, I…”

“Not what? What were you gonna say?” I peak sideways to catch her blinking in thought, and I take another long sip, sort of reveling in the sting of the coffee’s heat as it wakes me up even more.

A beamer meanders in front of me, and I stifle the urge to honk his ass off the road.

“I was gonna say ‘not hip enough,’ since Dee’s definitely a hipster,” Jolene reasons aloud. “But that sounds so lame. So I thought of saying not trendy enough. But I don’t know.”

“Hipsters,” I utter in a tone that implies fucking hipsters! . . . at least I hope so. “Wait, you call Sandradee, Dee? Does everyone call her that?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Takes away the la-di-da factor, right?”

I burst out snickering, glad not to have coffee in my mouth since it would’ve sprayed the dashboard . . . though my whole car’s innards look like someone’s wiped them down with a lump of dusty shit, anyway.

She laughs too.

I sigh. In my mind, that brief blip of joy only shows it’s gonna be a long fucking haul from here on out, since we’ve clearly exhausted all the genuine fun we might have already. Plus, I still feel like shit (do I need to keep saying it?), and don’t know Jolene all that well. How could I really relax and giggle along with someone who’s sister’s ass I’d choose to eat a million times over a bunch of breakfast sandwiches? What would either of them think if they knew that? What would anyone think?

Yeah, so fun’s off the fucking cards.

“You know Dee’s boyfriend, Leremy, wasn’t real, right?” Jolene whispers for some reason.  Apparently she didn’t get the memo we’re done laughing and smiling.

“What?” 

“She made him up. Her friend on Snapchat, Bex, told her it would help her get more popular. Especially with guys. It’s a thing! They’re all doing it! And this guy who lives in Riverside, Jeremy, wanted a fake girlfriend too. So Dee and Jeremy made this arrangement where they’d get together a few times, wear different outfits, and take all these pics, and…”

“What? That’s so fucking stupid!” I bark, still/again regretting cussing around my wife’s niece.

“Fuck yeah!” she beams. “Such a waste of time!”

I nod, very aware of the seconds of silence that follow as if I’m on stage and a damn audience is waiting for my next line.

“Tyler asked me to do that with one of his friends,” she says quietly.

“So, who the fuck’s this Tyler?” I ask, apparently just succumbing to a reality where Jolene and I exchange bad words.

Now it’s her turn to sigh. “Well, I thought he was my boyfriend,” she sort of groans. “My real boyfriend. None of that fake shit for likes or whatever. We started talking just about social media and modelling, but then . . . then we got real with each other. And we’d go back and forth for hours, every night. He was, like, so impressive to me, y’know? This famous guy getting all this attention telling me I was beautiful, and saying I had a future, and… He also told me I was the easiest person he had in his life to talk to, and that he didn’t have any other real people at all. Just fans, and fake friends, and fans who wanted to be fake friends to get fans for themselves. I thought I was special to him. I thought I meant something.”

I consider grabbing the last croissant from the bag, though I’m so full I feel like a beachball just got blown up inside my stomach. Still, I reach and start to gingerly unwrap the oil-stained paper. “But he wanted you to be his friend’s fake girlfriend?” I ask, hoping I’m tracking along with Jolene’s Tyler tale.

“Yeah, but that was just silly. It didn’t mean anything. Or, are you thinking that’s something I should’ve paid attention to . . . like a sign Tyler didn’t really care all that much about me?”

I place down my pastry-enfolded sausage and eggs, and look fully over at Jolene. The only way I can describe the look in her eyes is like bright, springtime, vibrant life being hemmed in on all sides by something dank and decaying. And since I usually see myself as the source of that sort of depleting, ugly, life-stealing force, I find it odd to feel my attention shift from distracting myself with food to push my way through riding out this long errand . . . my focus shifting to actually wanting to make sure this girl’s lively specialness doesn’t get snuffed out.

That’s fucking weird for me, dude! I . . . care?

Maybe it’s just that she actually asked me what I think. Sandradee (or Dee, or what-fucken-ever) would never ask my opinion. No one would, especially no one young. 

So yeah, maybe I’m just feeling flattered.

“What was the question again?” I ask, cursing myself for drinking and fapping away all my brain cells.

“Do you think Tyler didn’t really care about me . . . and that’s why he wanted to fake set me up with someone online?”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And you’re…?” Yeah, I should know.

“Nineteen.”

“No, sorry, I don’t think he cared. Not really. Not in any way that would make him do something he didn’t want to do for you. He maybe cared in that he liked you. I mean, I’m sure he meant what he told you about what you meant to him. Sorry..”

“No, that’s good,” she says, “Thank you.”

And now I know this new sensation I’m feeling really must just be gratitude for being shown the least little bit of respect by someone. Anyone.

“So, why’re we going to Bythe, then?”