Chapter 6
chapter
six
Cruz
I’m halfway to Houston when my phone pings with an alert. It’s time for me to stop and stretch my legs anyway—before my bad knee decides to start misbehaving—so I pull off at one of the Texas supersized gas stations. The cheerful beaver sign looms like a giant sun in the sky.
Normally, these places are far too people-infested for my comfort, but they are very dog-friendly, so I’ve made my peace with being a customer. Besides, they have clean bathrooms and an amazing coffee bar.
I pull my phone from my pocket before going inside. I should deal with whatever this is before being assaulted by a horde of hungry Texans.
Buttercup: I did something. I need you to promise me you won’t be mad.
I frown, staring at my phone, wondering if I’ve conjured her out of thin air.
Why would she even have my number, let alone be texting me?
Though obviously, I must have saved her contact info myself, because no one else would have saved her under that name.
A quick scan of previous texts shows a couple of conversations from months ago about the work her family’s shop has done on my van. Which makes sense. Because I know her in a professional capacity. Related to automotive care.
And not in any way related to my borderline creepy obsession with her.
So then why is she texting me? And why now?
Me: Are you okay?
Me: Is something wrong?
Buttercup: Yes, I’m fine. Safe.
Me: Why would I be mad?
Buttercup: Because it affects you.
Me: I don’t understand.
Buttercup: Promise you won’t get mad.
Me: At you? I could never be mad at you.
Buttercup: Just promise.
Me: Okay, I promise.
Buttercup: Surprise! I’m here with you.
Me: What?
I glance around outside the van and only see a steady stream of traffic and people.
Me: Is that a secret code for something?
Buttercup: No, silly. I’m here. In the van.
Buttercup: Like a stowaway.
“Fuck.” I open the door and storm across the pavement to the back of the van, where the built-in kennels are.
She’s sitting against one of the crates and gives me a little wave with a smile. “Surprise.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“You promised you wouldn’t get mad.”
“Yep,” I say, the p making a popping noise. “I need more context, Buttercup, because I don’t know what’s going on.”
She kinda of crabwalks to the door, and I help her get out of the van. “I wanted to get out of town for a tiny bit. I knew if I asked, you’d probably say no.”
“I would have,” I grumble.
She shrugs. “See?”
“So you waited until I was too far away to turn around to reveal yourself?”
“Something like that.”
I blow out a breath. “What exactly is your plan?”
“I have a friend I’m going to meet up with for dinner. Then tomorrow, I’ll be another two hands to help out with the dogs.”
I stare at her. Fuck, she’s pretty. Her long blonde hair is pulled up in space buns--I think they’re called--and she’s wearing a black t-shirt with a wrench image on it. Surrounding the tool it says: I’m here because you broke something.
“Are you mad?” she asks.
“No, Buttercup, I’m not mad. Just fucking confused.” I turn away from her. “I’m going inside to get coffee. I’ll be back.”
“Oh, I’m going in with you. I need to use the little girls’ room, and I hear they have the best snacks.” She skips up next to me to match my stride.
Skips!
As if I needed another reminder that she’s way too young for me.
Twenty minutes later, we’re back in the van, loaded down with snacks and matching happy beaver pajama pants. I’m still not sure how that happened, except that apparently she’d never been far enough away from Saddle Creek to have visited the famous travel-stop gas stations that litter our state.
She was so excited, I couldn’t refuse. When she looked at me with those big green eyes, the idea of matching pants seemed like a great idea.
She’s up in the passenger seat now that she no longer has to hide. Her feet are up on the dashboard. I’ve never seen her bare feet before, since she wears work boots at the garage. But there they are… cute and feminine with chipped pink polish on each nail.
She opens a bag of something, and the scent fills the cab immediately identifying her snack.
“Tell me that’s not Funyuns,” I say.
She grins, completely unashamed. “They’re tasty, salty goodness.”
I grunt, mostly because it keeps me from grinning back at her.
“They’re crunchy,” she argues. “Satisfying.”
“They taste like sadness and dead leaves. With salt.”
She laughs, the sound bubbling out like she can’t help it. “Okay. If your taste buds are so much more refined, what’s your road trip snack of choice?”
I hold up my gas station prize. “Beef jerky. Original flavor. The backbone of America.”
She makes a face. “That’s not a snack, that’s punishment.”
“It’s protein.”
“It’s leathery meat strips.”
I grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Because it is! You could’ve chosen chips, candy, trail mix—but no. You went full survivalist.”
“Hey, if we break down in the middle of nowhere, you’ll be grateful I came prepared.”
She pretends to consider that. “Fine. But if I’m dying of boredom first, I’m eating your jerky out of spite.”
I glance over. “You sure you’re not already doing that?”
She shoots me a look. “You’re lucky I like a challenge.”
I chuckle, and for a few miles, the cab fills with the sound of her crunching and me pretending not to watch the way the corners of her mouth lift every time she catches me looking.
“So what’s your go-to comfort movie?” she asks, glancing at me over her sunglasses.
“Die Hard. Probably.”
She snorts. “Of course. Explosions and masculinity. How original.”
“Excuse me, Die Hard is a Christmas classic. Not to mention a love story.”
“Because nothing says ‘holiday cheer’ like Bruce Willis crawling through air ducts.”
“Exactly. What’s yours?”
“You’ve Got Mail.”
“Figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just—you strike me as a Meg Ryan kind of girl. Optimistic. Big feelings. Probably cry over bookstore closures.”
She gasps. “Who doesn’t cry over bookstore closures?”
Why the fuck couldn’t she be harder to like? Or immature and silly? But a woman who reads? Who loves bookstores? That’s my fucking catnip.
I sigh. “That’s fair.”
“Besides, she has that whole speech about how books you read when you’re a child become part of your identity in a way that books you read as an adult don’t. It’s a perfect moment because it’s so honest.”
“I grew up reading The Narnia Chronicles and then Harry Potter. So I get that sentiment.”
“Wait, did you say that Die Hard is a love story?” she asks.
“John McClane literally walks barefoot on broken glass for love.”
She laughs. “That’s not love, that’s poor planning.”
I can’t help grinning at her. “You’re a brat.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs.
We’re quiet for a couple of miles.
“You know,” she says, “if we combined our movie choices, we’d have something pretty good. Explosions and emotions.”
I glance at her, and she’s smiling just enough to make my chest feel tight. “Story of my life,” I say. “Blowing things up and pretending it’s fine.”
She tilts her head, studying me for a beat too long. Then, softly: “Is that what you did in the military? Blow things up?”
“Among other things.”
Up ahead, a billboard catches her attention. She points at it, excitement sparking. “World’s Largest Armadillo! Next exit. Oh, we have to stop.”
I’m already moving into the right lane. “We’re really stopping to see an oversized armadillo?”
“Not oversized. World’s largest. There’s a difference.”
“You realize that’s code for ‘sad concrete sculpture next to a gas station,’ right?”
“That’s the charm!” she says. “You can’t do a proper road trip without at least one questionable roadside attraction.”
I shake my head, but I’m already slowing down. “You’re going to be so disappointed.”
She leans back, smug. “You just don’t understand joy.”
When we pull into the gravel lot, she’s practically bouncing in her seat. The “World’s Largest Armadillo” is, predictably, precisely what I said—cracked cement, faded paint, one beady eye missing.
She still gasps like it’s the Eiffel Tower.
“Oh, he’s perfect,” she whispers reverently. “Look at that craftsmanship.”
“Pretty sure that craftsmanship involved some guy with two first names and a mullet,” I mutter.
She swats my arm, but still giggles. “Don’t ruin it. Go stand next to him so I can take a picture.”
“I’m not posing with a mutant armadillo.”
“Come on,” she pleads, her smile turning just a little too sweet. “For the memories.”
And just like that, I’m standing next to this cracked concrete creature while she lines up her phone, trying not to look like an idiot.
She snaps the photo, then checks it, and rolls her eyes. “You could smile.”
I grab her and pull her to stand with me in front of the mutant armadillo. Then I hold up her phone and take a selfie of us.
She looks at that photo and releases a sigh. “That’s much better. Thank you.”
I choose not to analyze why my smile looks so goddamn real in the picture with her.