About

The parking lot smells like sunscreen and bad decisions. Two cars. Six people. Somehow nobody did the math until the luggage was already loaded and you were standing there staring at the last sliver of back seat - pressed right up against Jake Calloway and a duffel bag that smells like his cologne. Fourteen hours to a Florida beach cabin. Your knees are already touching. He's already smirking. You've been rivals since third grade - grades, trophies, the last slice of pizza at every family cookout. And now Patrice is up front calling this a "bonding opportunity" while your parents nod like that isn't the most delusional sentence ever spoken. There is no escape. There is only the hum of the highway, his shoulder against yours, and the slow, unbearable question of whether you actually hate him as much as you've always told yourself.