Todos os capítulos de Break up with me: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 5

The Civic smelled like old french fries and the pine air freshener Jess had hung from the mirror three owners ago, though by now the only thing it still smelled of was the pine air freshener trying and failing to cover the french fries. Dani drove with one hand on the wheel and the other out the window, fingers slicing the summer air, and the night was warm and the radio was loud and she was twenty years old and free.Bri rode shotgun with her feet on the dash, which Dani had stopped fighting her about by the third year of their friendship because Bri did what Bri wanted to do and the dashboard was no different from any other surface in the world as far as Bri was concerned. Jess sprawled across the back seat with her shoes off, singing the wrong words to a song she'd hated twenty minutes ago and now claimed as her favorite. They had no plans. They had a full tank of gas that Dani had paid for in quarters and lint, and they had the whole summer ahead of them with nothing to do but be

The shop smelled the way it always smelled: motor oil, hot metal, and the green bite of cutting fluid. Costa Auto sat on the corner of Mill and Second in Bramwell, a cinder-block building with three bays and a hand-painted sign that Marco Costa had never gotten around to replacing even though the C in Costa had faded to a ghost of itself. The lot was gravel, and the gravel had two ruts worn into it from thirty years of trucks pulling in and out, and there was a tire out front that Marco used as a planter and had never planted anything in, and a coffee can by the door for the honor-system coffee that had never once, in the history of the shop, been refilled by anyone other than Marco himself. Dani pulled the Civic into the gravel lot at half past eleven and killed the engine and sat there listening to it tick.Her phone buzzed. Jess.*did you find out who he was**no**are you going to**no**you're boring*Dani smiled and put the phone face-down on her thigh. She grabbed her Big Gulp

Sunday night at Pinetop drew the biggest crowd of the summer. The fence along the front straight was four deep by dusk, and somebody had set up a grill in the infield selling burgers for cash, and the announcer, a man named Curtis who'd called every drift night at Pinetop for a decade, worked the crowd through a bullhorn because the PA system had died in June and nobody had fixed it.The track at Pinetop sat on a flat ridge top above a former logging town, a two-mile road course that wound through old growth pine and granite outcroppings, the kind of place that had been carved out of a mountain one dynamite blast at a time in the seventies and had never quite stopped smelling like the sawmill it used to be. On a Sunday night in July the place smelled like cut pine and burnt rubber and the funnel cake truck that parked at the gate every weekend, and the noise of it, the engines and the crowd and the bullhorn, carried down the ridge into the town below like the whole mou