Woke Up Like This(28)
“And if it doesn’t work? What if we’re still stuck here in 2037?” Renner asks, a desperate look on his face.
“You have to come to your joint bachelor/bachelorette at Ollie’s tonight and pretend everything is normal until we find out what’s going on,” she says, not blinking. “I’m not letting your underdeveloped teen brains ruin your adult lives. Besides, maybe seeing more people you know will help spark your memories.”
Doubtful.
Re-creating the ladder fall sounds ridiculous, but what other option do we have? I’m willing to do anything to save my future self from making the biggest mistake of my life.
“You’re delusional if you think you’re driving,” Renner says, nudging me away from the driver’s side as I stride toward the car, fob in hand, channeling Vin Diesel in The Fast and the Furious.
“Why not? I have a license. See?” I pull my perfectly legitimate driver’s license from my bag and brandish it in his face. Believe it or not, I passed my driver’s test somewhere along the way. I truly don’t know how it happened, but I’m damn proud. Besides, if future me has a cool, sleek, futuristic car, I’m not passing up an opportunity to take it for a joyride. There have to be some perks for being robbed of my youth and forced to marry Renner.
He leans in, scrutinizing it like an eighty-five-year-old with cataracts. “Char, you’re a liability on the road.”
I shove the ID back in my purse but keep the fob tight. “I am not. You can’t hold one tiny incident against me. Lots of people fail their driver’s test. You’re unfairly targeting me because I’m an Asian woman.” Yes, I’m aware I’ve perpetuated the ridiculous stereotype that Asian women can’t drive. I’m not proud of it.
He levels me with his look, running a hand through his hair, exasperated. “First, this has nothing to do with stereotypes. I’m going by the facts. It wasn’t just one incident, it was multiple. We were in the same driver’s ed class. And if I remember correctly, you almost backed over a pregnant woman.”
“You’re being so dramatic. I merely tapped her. She walked away without a scratch. And maybe she should look where she’s going before she walks into a car.”
He tosses his hands in the air and heads for the passenger side. “Fine. Drive. Maybe you’ll kill us and put us out of our misery,” he adds.
To be fair, our “relationship” is flat-out insufferable. Not that I expected anything less. I’ve tried to give him some grace after his parents’ divorce bomb. But it’s proving a herculean task. We’ve been bickering all morning, ever since he used all the hot water, claiming he needed extra time to wash his beard. He also ate the last piece of bread in our pantry without even asking if I wanted half. If my future entails living with a man with the emotional intelligence of a ten-year-old, I don’t want any part of it.
I attempt to open the car door, but there’s no handle. Instead, there’s a little sliver of chrome. After much inspection, I realize the chrome rectangle is a button, which opens the door.
The interior of the car is about as familiar as an intergalactic spaceship. There are no buttons or dials. Instead, there’s a massive, shiny touchscreen down the middle of the console.
Renner clears his throat. “Um, are we going? Or are we just gonna sit in the driveway all day?”
“Relax, Renner. I’m just taking it all in.” Frankly, I have no idea how to start the car. But I’m certainly not about to admit that.
As if he can read my mind, he leans over and presses a button near the triangular-shaped steering wheel, which starts the engine. It’s impossibly quiet as it purrs to a start, just like the car that nearly crushed me this morning. A backup camera pops up at the bottom of the screen. Unlike Mom’s sedan, it’s not grainy and covered in dirt. It’s clear as day, like an HD movie.
When I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, a pleasant voice filters through the speakers. “Good morning. Are you on your way to work?”
Renner and I stare at each other, startled. “Uh, yes?” I squeak. “Are you . . . a person?”
“I am Raina. Your vehicle’s software. Would you like to drive yourself today?”
Renner runs his hand over the dash, eyes sparkling like he’s discovered a pile of gold. “Holy crap, it’s a self-driving car. This is so freakin’ cool. This makes the DILF Mobile look like a steaming pile of junk.”
I death-grip the steering wheel. “No. Give me the mom-van over this any day. This is terrifying,” I whisper. “Drive myself,” I yell, panicked at handing my life over to a robot. I once watched a YouTube documentary about artificial intelligence taking over the world. I’ve been haunted ever since.
Renner pouts. “You’re such a killjoy. It’s probably a hundred times safer to have the robot drive.”
I ignore him, trying to figure out how to adjust all the mirrors and the seat. After ten minutes of scrolling, we realize the car has two profiles, mine and Renner’s, which automatically adjust to our customized settings. Satisfied and comfortable behind the wheel, I tap the button to put the car into reverse.
As we roll out of the driveway, Renner lets out a shriek. “Stop.”
I brake, and we come to a grinding halt as a tomato-red car whizzes by behind us.