Daddy’s Drive-In Hot Rules – “We’re really doing this?” my mom says, reaching into her dress to shove her bra up and push her cleavage higher. “A drive-in? For her eighteenth birthday?” “Zoey likes old movies,” David, my stepdad, says. I lean between the seats. “Zoey also likes hints.” “Nice try. Ten more minutes.” I drop back against the seat with a groan and tug at the hem of my T-shirt hard enough to stretch it out. “That’s basically torture.” “It’s called a birthday surprise, sweetheart.” My mom sighs like she’s trapped in a war zone instead of a Subaru. “I still don’t get why we’re sweating to death in a parking lot for some ancient movie.” I bite the inside of my cheek. She’s been at it since we pulled in. The heat. The dust. The parking lot. The horrifying fact that my eighteenth birthday is happening without chilled champagne and a bartender named Luca.
Outside, the drive-in is already filling up. Pickup trucks. SUVs. Girls in denim shorts climbing out of a Jeep with iced coffees and cowboy boots like they’re headed to a country music video instead of a movie lot off the highway. Somebody’s little kid is already screaming over dropped popcorn. A golden retriever is hanging out the back window of a Bronco two rows over, living a better life than the rest of us. Basically my dream night. My mom looks out the windshield like we parked behind a landfill. “I’m sorry, but this is pathetic. She’s eighteen. We should be out having real drinks, not roasting in a car for some depressing old movie.” “It’s one night, Emma.” “It’s a hot parking lot.” Fair point. Still. “Can we not do this tonight?” I sink lower in the seat and fold my arms over myself. “For once, can this not be about you? It’s my birthday.” “Easy, little Zoey. Your mom’s just tired.” That’s David. Always stepping in like a human shock absorber. He’s a coach, which probably explains some of it. Patience like a saint. Calm voice. Endless ability to deal with people acting insane in enclosed spaces. He’s been doing the dad thing since I was six. Early mornings. Late pickups. Bleachers. Gas-station Gatorades.
Standing in the driveway rebounding for me until it got dark. The man once drove across town in a thunderstorm because I forgot my jersey before a game. My mom called and said, “She’ll survive.” David showed up ten minutes later, soaked through, holding it in a dry-cleaning bag. And somehow he keeps showing up for my mom too. Even after the Marriott thing. Even after she got caught coming out of a hotel room with some guy in a quarter-zip and had the nerve to cry like she was the victim. I was fifteen. Old enough to know exactly what I was looking at. David never yelled. Never smashed anything. Never even raised his voice. Just stood there in that awful silence while my mom talked in circles and lied straight to his face. He stayed. God knows why. Right on cue, she leans toward the window, practically pressing herself against the glass. The dress is white and tight and cut low enough to make it very clear family movie night was not the main event. She scans the nicer cars parked beside us like she’s browsing Zillow. David notices. Of course he notices. He just looks at me in the rearview and gives me a quick wink. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s ruining tonight.” I try to smile back.
My mom beats me to it. “Fine. You two can sit here and enjoy your wholesome little movie.” She grabs her purse, flips down the visor, checks her lipstick, fixes her hair, gives her boobs one more aggressive lift, and gets out. “I’m going to get some real air.” Sure. I watch through the windshield. She smooths her dress over her hips and stands by the hood like she’s waiting for a spotlight to find her. Doesn’t take long. A black sports car a couple spaces over rolls its window down, and the guy inside leans out. “Hey, sexy,” he calls. “I’ve got the AC blasting, top-shelf gin, and a much better view. Interested?” My mom laughs. Not her regular laugh. The other one. The fake flirty one she keeps in storage for men and waiters and anybody she wants something from. “Why not?” And just like that, she opens the passenger door and slides in. The door slams shut. I stare at the car so hard my eyes start burning. How do you even do that? Just leave? On my birthday? With your husband sitting ten feet away? David doesn’t say a word, but his hands tighten on the wheel hard enough that his knuckles go white.
That does it. Tears hit fast and hot and humiliating. I cover my face with both hands because apparently this is what turning eighteen looks like. Crying in the back seat while my mother runs off with a stranger because his car has better air-conditioning. The driver’s door opens. A second later, the seat dips beside me. David slides into the back, smelling like soap and mint gum and summer grass. Coach smell. Safe smell. “Hey,” he says softly. “No.” I keep my face covered. His hand closes around my wrist and eases one hand down. “Zoey.” That voice gets me every time. Low. Steady. The same voice from scraped knees, bad losses, panic attacks before games, and the one time I threw up in a trash can before varsity tryouts and swore I was dying. “Don’t let her ruin tonight too, okay? It’s your birthday.” I look up at him. Big mistake. Angry would’ve been easier. He just looks tired. Tired and hurt and still more worried about me than himself, which feels very on-brand for David and somehow makes everything worse. “I’m okay,” I whisper. An obvious lie. Then I ask, “Are you?” He doesn’t answer. The giant screen crackles to life above us before he can. Blue-white light spills across the lot. Radios click on all around us.
I look up just as the title comes on. Roman Holiday. My breath catches. Of course. He remembered. David glances at the screen, then back at me. “Got it right?” My eyes sting all over again. My mom ditching us is bad enough. Humiliating too. But David still making sure I got my birthday surprise anyway somehow hurts worse. He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” His voice sounds rougher that time. Then he settles back beside me, one arm around my shoulders. “Watch the movie,” he says quietly. So I try. Really, I do. But tucked against his side with his heartbeat under my cheek, all I can think is that I want to make him feel better. And that is probably not a great sign for me.