Chapter 7
S CARLETT
The room looks different without the people in it.
Someone has turned all lights on, and I walk to the wall and switch most of them off so only a few less intrusive ones glow around the room.
Considering the number of people we’ve had here tonight, the place looks fine.
There’s still food on the table, and I cover it with plastic foil and stick a note on one of the trays. Perhaps someone would like to take it home — it’s untouched.
I spin around and collect my jacket and my bag.
For some reason, I thought I’d sweat if I put my long coat on, so I opted for a double-breasted, tailored jacket that makes a fashion statement but does nothing to ward off the cold outside.
It must be freezing, I figure, glancing out the window. The last two cars roll out of the parking lot, and I move closer and check the space for that stranger’s car.
His truck is still there, parked next to the entrance. So, he’s still in the building. A shiver sweeps my spine.
I’m not the one to get spooked easily. And I have no reason to be. The cleaning crew will arrive soon, and a security guard is in an auxiliary building.
It’s a safe place surrounded by land and trees, with a long winding road leading to the main street a mile from here.
It looks amazing in any season. A historical building with all the amenities.
Footsteps echo in the building, and this can only be him. I don’t know why my heart does gymnastics, bouncing inside my chest like a bird.
It’s strange. The effect he has on me is new to me. But, not having sex in a while doesn’t help.
Every time he moved his eyes to me, fire and ice traveled through me.
He didn’t express much, but it didn’t change how I reacted to him.
When I felt his bulge, I thought I’d get the imprint of his erection on my butt. I could imagine the outline on my skirt.
A chuckle falls from my lips.
It’s funny now, but it wasn’t that funny back then.
I glance over my shoulder to check the bench where he sat an hour ago, and I also listen to his footsteps.
A part of me would like to see him again. Get a glimpse of his face. Maybe a name.
Although he wouldn’t win a prize for being the best conversationalist any time soon, I’m curious about the man.
His footfalls fade away as if moving down the corridor and, um, wait. Is he using the back exit?
A bud of hope blooms in my chest as I get lost in a sky of mystification.
He came this way, changed his mind, and opted for the back exit? Did he want to see me before leaving? Or had he forgotten about the back exit, recalled what I had said, and gone back?
If he had made the trip to the event room, he could’ve easily walked out like everybody else.
The entire story is filled with inconsistencies, and frankly, I don’t like the truth.
He probably forgot about the back exit, came this way, figured out I might still be here, wanted to avoid me––because what happened before was embarrassing enough––and then realized he could do it by exiting the building in the back.
A little detour that apparently made sense to him.
I sigh away my disappointment. It’s better that way.
He didn’t want to bump into me again.
Didn’t even want the money.
Couldn’t even share his name.
What did he think I’d do with it?
Look him up?
Hire a PI to learn more about his life?
I feel offended by this preposterous hypothesis, so I pivot away from the window when a sealed bottle of wine catches my eye.
Before debating with myself for a few moments, I snatch it up, tuck it under my arm, and leave the room.
The rumbling of his truck engine fills the air.
Great.
This way, I know he’s in his car, going wherever he is going, and we are both safe.
I manage to push the door open and step outside just as the sizable truck rolls slowly out of the parking lot.
The fact that I didn’t get to see him gnaws at my mind. What good would’ve done to me, anyway?
At least now, I can imagine his face. Paint it with the brush of my imagination any way I want.
I make a valid effort but I fall short and when the headlights of his truck vanish into the mist falling over the wooded area, I try to forget about him and think about the warm soft bed waiting for me at home.
SCARLETT
I drive a beat-up car that looks decent, has no dents, and has all its seats accounted for, yet it becomes difficult to run and gives me a hard time when the weather is cold.
Like now.
I’m freezing my ass off, my fingers stiff on the bottle of wine as I try to turn the engine on again.
“Please don’t do this to me,” I mutter, tucking the bottle of wine in the back––it will arrive perfectly chilled at my place if things go slowly like this––and returning my focus to my vehicle.
Someone explained to me that a car might not start in cold weather because the oil thickens or the battery output is bad.
There could be other causes, but I’m not a mechanic.
I bought this car five years ago. It had a lot of mileage and a few problems.
It was cheap, and I loved it.
I should get a new one, but as crappy as it might be, this piece of metal comes with a big plus. It’s paid off. I don’t have to worry about the car payments. Plus, the insurance is cheaper. Although, I could always sell it for scrap.
Decisions, decisions.
Miraculously, the engine starts, and before long, a semblance of heat wafts from the heater. It’s not enough to take my jacket off––what a stupid idea to come to the party dressed like this–– but it’s enough to defrost the windshield and not feel like a popsicle by the time I get home.
Slowly, I veer away, not trusting it at all. The engine doesn’t purr as it usually does. It sounds like it has a bad case of pneumonia.
Please don’t let this be the day when I'm left stranded in the middle of the road.
I glance at the clock on the dashboard.
Ten minutes past nine. It’s dark, and a sprinkle of snow flows across my headlights.
It’s slowly moving, and I let free a long exhale, turning my focus to this evening. I’m happy that things worked out in the end.
Monday, I’ll call Elisa.
Tomorrow or Sunday evening, I’ll call Maria.
I need a break from all this. And the break is near.
Twenty-two more minutes without a major traffic delay, and I could roll into my driveway.
I learned to love my place. Despite the hate and love relationship I had with it after my mother’s death and my divorce, I realized having a roof above your head is a big deal.
Oops.
What was that? My car shook a little. Like someone startled it. Please don’t get startled. I just reached the main road.
The woods split on either side of the street, and I’m still far from the first buildings, houses, or the gas station, where I usually fill up my tank when I’m in the area.
They’re all about ten minutes away.
This is a two-way street, but as far as I look, it’s only the shaft of light coming from my car and the big old trees having their branches draped in snow.
If my car breaks down here…
“I don’t even want to think about it,” I murmur to myself, stepping on gas.
My car shakes again. There’s definitely something wrong with it, which only makes me press the gas pedal even harder.
Luckily, the car picks up speed, and I pay extra attention to the road. If it’s not the car engine, it can be a deer or a patch of…
I haven't even finished my thought, and my tires hit a patch of ice. The steering wheel yanks out of my grip, and panic swirls inside my head.
I don’t know what to do first. Grab the steering wheel? Hit the brakes? Am I supposed to do both at the same time?
I lift my foot off the gas and attempt to hit the brakes.
I know it the moment I’m doing it that it’s not a good idea and I could spin and fall into a ditch.
I also know I shouldn’t panic and make sudden moves. Only pump the brakes gently and let the engine lose power.
I’m doing my best, trying not to roll over, but I can’t regain complete control of my car, and after a few moments of struggle and skidding toward the side of the road, my vehicle shudders and the engine suddenly dies.
A long ribbon of billowing mist lifts in the air from under the hood, and what I have feared the most happens.
I’m stuck in my car with only my heels, a skirt, and a jacket on me. A bottle of wine, and as I reach inside my bag, a dead phone.
“Ugh… The story of my life,” I groan, dropping my arm against the wheel and pressing my forehead into my sleeve, already shivering from the merciless cold.