1. Korine
KORINE
Twenty-two years later…
“Miss, has anyone ever told you you should model?” the sales clerk asks with a wide, welcoming smile. She holds up a bottle of foundation with one hand and flags me down from behind her make up counter with the other. “We’re offering a free item from our Bella Beauty line if you let us use you for a live make up demonstration.”
I flit by, clutching my purse and cursing my luck. “No thanks! I’m in a rush.”
“But, miss! This is an eighty dollar value—and that’s not counting the free make up demonstration by one of our most talented professional artists. We just need fifteen minutes of your time.”
“Can’t. Busy. Sorry!” I call from over my shoulder as I flee the scene.
I hop on the escalator and ride it all the way to the second floor of Keaton's department store. The home decor section is the first thing you see stepping off the escalator. Crystal vases sparkle under the store's fluorescent lighting and there’s a rainbow of throw pillows in every shape, size, and pattern. The clock aisle jumps out on the left, the many hands ticking away.
Just like the panic ticking inside my chest.
I take notice of the time glaring at me and mutter under my breath, "Please be ready. Please, please be ready."
Racing down the sales floor, weaving between customers browsing at their leisure, I practically break out into a run.
The tailor's station emerges among racks of men's suits and dress shirts. He looks up with his pointed glasses low on his nose, his hands fast at work with a measuring tape and scrap of fabric.
I'm panting by the time I skitter to a stop at his counter. "Hi..." I puff out, my brow shining with sweat. "I'm here for... to pick up... Friday at four.”
His thin lips quirk into a knowing smile. "Yes, Mrs. Stricklin. I'm aware why you're here. I was the one who took your order. You made it just in time. We close up in four minutes."
Thank you, sweet Jesus. Phew!
I can only mouth thank you as he turns away and rummages among a rack of assorted clothes. "Ah, here it is! A man's Dioni three-piece suit tailored to fit the measurements given.”
I tap Ken’s credit card to the card read machine and take the suit protected by pristine plastic covering with gleeful hands, feeling like I've just been given a lifeline.
"I presume this suit's for Mr. Stricklin," says the tailor. "He should be pleased with the fit."
My stomach clenches, cutting my glee short. "I really hope so. Thanks again."
I'm able to duck out of Keaton's with only two more salesclerks harassing me about special sales and offers. I dart straight to my dented and dinged Geo Metro in the crowded parking lot, blowing hair out of my face and jerking the key in the ignition.
Forty-five minutes left. I can still make magic happen.
"C'mon, c'mon," I mutter under my breath, encountering traffic.
Even merging onto the highway is a headache.
I slam my palm to my steering wheel, honking my horn at the indecisive car in front of me. They've got their blinker on, going forty in a sixty, driving so slow I'm not sure how we'll ever seamlessly merge. At least not before our lane runs out.
"You dumbass!" I growl. "That's not how you... ARGH!"
The car in front of me speeds up, then slams on their brake before doing the same thing all over again. We play this game to more frustration and swear words from me.
The truck behind me honks their horn as if I'm the problem.
I glance in the rearview and see an irate, middle-aged, red-faced man clenching his teeth. How he's pissed at me is beyond me. It's not like the car in front of me isn't the culprit!
The car comes to a complete stop rather than merge, causing me to smash my foot on my brake to avoid rear-ending them.
I'm not so lucky. The truck tailing me knocks into me from behind like a bad game of bumper cars. I shriek, jerking forward against my seat belt, my grip tight on my wheel.
No, no, no! Not today! Not right now!
The shock takes several seconds to wear off. I've been rear-ended. On the worst possible day ever. This would happen to me.
I heave a sigh and go to unlock my car door. We need to assess the damage and exchange information. I've barely set a foot on the ground when the truck revs its engine and then speeds off, cutting around me on the shoulder of the road to make it onto the highway.
"Wait!" I scream, my jaw agape. "You can't take off! You hit me! COME BACK!"
But, as he speeds off down the highway, it's clear he has no intention of doing so. He's long gone, whoever he is.
"Unbelievable!" I growl, kicking dirt. Other cars drift by, some passengers nosily sticking their heads out the window to ogle the damage on my rear bumper. I glare at them, a second away from telling them to fuck off.
Thirty-eight minutes left...
Unsure what direction to even go in, I return to my driver's seat and pull out my phone. Ken's voice mail answers me. At the beep, I inhale a deep breath and launch into an explanation.
"Hey, Ken, it's me," I say tensely. "Nothing to worry about. But... someone hit my car. A hit-and-run. I didn't even get his plate number. I'm going to call the insurance and take it to the shop tomorrow if you’ll let me. I didn't involve the police either. I... I knew you wouldn't like that. Again, nothing to worry about. Please don't stress over it. I'll make sure everything's still perfect for tonight. I love you."
The recording cuts me off at the minute mark, ending the call on its own.
I release the breath I've been holding in, cursing my luck again, before I go to turn the key. The engine gives a pitiful whine that lasts a few seconds and then dies out completely.
"No," I whisper. "No ’effing way! NO!"
There's no way my engine would die like this. Not right now. Not when I'm already behind on what's such an important night for Ken…
Thirty-one minutes...
I should've known an old beater like this was on its last leg. I'd have fixed it myself if I weren't forbidden from doing so. The least that could've been allowed was taking it to a shop.
But that suggestion, too, was frowned upon. Mechanics are too friendly and friendly leads to trouble...
Despite my lack of tools, I pop the hood and take a look. There was a time in the past where I used to keep a secret stash of tools in a makeup pouch tucked away in the bottom compartment of my driver's side door. Those were deemed to be trouble too when they were found out.
A wary sigh leaves me eyeing my dead car engine. I'm not even sure it's salvageable, which would mean my only sense of freedom, my wheels, will be gone. For how long, I'm not sure.
But the thought of going an indeterminate amount of time without my own mode of transportation makes my heart shrivel up.
Twenty-seven damn minutes…
There's no way I'll finish in time. No way I'll make it home and get started on dinner in time with the set schedule.
Panic infects me so that I feel breathless and clammy. I half consider flagging down one of the many cars zipping by just to see if they'll help me. Even just provide the tools. I can do the rest myself.
Really, I'd like to hitchhike the hell out of here. Get as far away from our new home in Pulsboro as possible. I would if I didn't have Mama to think about.
"What the hell am I going to do?" I groan out loud, staring around at the dreary November landscape.
The thunder of an engine answers me. I look up from my own dead car engine and my heart leaps in my chest at what I see barreling toward me.
Going way too fast for a highway on-ramp, clutching the buckhorn handlebars of his Harley Davidson FXDB Street Bob, his golden brown hair rippling in the wind, is none other than Blake Cash.
Otherwise known not just as my first love but my ex-best friend.