Jessa

Mariah’s car smelled like peppermint gum and chaos.

Which, honestly, felt normal.

She pulled out of my driveway like she was driving in the Indy 500, one hand on the wheel, the other flipping through the radio stations.

“You know,” she said, “if we die in a fiery crash, I want my legacy to be that I looked hot doing it.”

I snorted. “Your legacy will be that you refused to drive under ten miles over the speed limit.”

“That’s called confidence,” she ...