6
“Keep it together, Susan.” I say to myself, but the panic sweats have already begun. I check again for the third time. Not in my bag, the glove compartment, under the seats, even the backseat and trunk. Not a single charging cord to be found.
It’s gone, along with all my car’s gas, apparently.
This is what you get for not running through a trip checklist!
I stand up from where I was hunched over to reach the verrrry back of the trunk, stretching my tight black pencil skirt to its limits, look up at the sky and scream. “Sadieeeeeee!”
I holler at the clouds, wishing there were more of them. Because it’s hot. And I’m stranded. On the side of the road with barely any phone battery left and a single tiny bar of cell service—which I’m pretty sure is a lie out here in Backwoods, Nowhere, Kansas.
Immediately my brain plays out every single worst-case scenario, helpful organ that it is. My cellphone dies, it gets dark, and I die here after having sipped the last swig of cold 7-11 coffee I’m saving to stay hydrated. Only no, I don’t die. I live long enough for the Texas Chainsaw Killer 2.0, the Kansas Chainsaw Killer, in this case, to find me stranded and start dismembering me alive.
My already speeding heart rate picks up even more.
I’m going to die from the shock of having my arm sawed off while fully conscious, all because of my sisters.
“Why, God! Why couldn’t I have been an only chiiiiiiild?” I really screech that last bit, this time waving my arms for emphasis. A decision I deeply regret when I hear a vehicle approaching, whose driver has to have seen me basically yelling at the wind.
I turn and redirect my communication efforts from God above to the quickly approaching truck.
Wait…that’s not any truck, that’s a black and bright green Bell Construction truck! It comes to an abrupt stop and the passenger window rolls down.
Yes! Of course Josh is going to swoop in and—
Oh, hell.
That’s not Josh staring at me from inside that truck.
“Heyyyy, Adam.” I say, trying to sound casual.
“What the hell are you doing?” He asks the question like an accusation.
“Just, you know, having a minor panic attack on the side of an abandoned highway, er, I guess, not abandoned, since lookie here, here you are.” I gesture at his truck. He doesn’t even blink, just stares at what seems like the biggest annoyance and inconvenience in his life. A.k.a. Me. “Yayyyy.” I add flatly.
“Overheated?” He finally says.
“Um, no. Out of gas.” His brows go up and I feel a violent need to defend myself. “Not my fault! My father insists Sadie and I share my car when I’m home and she used it without telling me. And this was such a quick trip I didn’t treat it like a trip, trip, you know? But clearly I should have because after Sadie sucked it dry of gas she also made sure I had no cell phone charger cables in my car either. Not that they’d do me much good out here, right? I can’t get more than one tiny bar, can you?” I hold my phone up into the air and wait for his reply.
“What are you doing way out here?” Again, his question feels more like he’s scolding me than asking me.
“Josh texted me that this way to the job site was faster because of the construction on the turnpike. Is he with you?” Idiot! You can see inside the truck! Which clearly only contains the Grumpapottomus! “I mean, no, obviously, he’s not. But is he maybe behind you? Or ahead of us? And he can turn around and come get me? I tried calling him but his phone went to voicemail and I haven’t been able to get a call out since. I did send some texts, no replies though.”
The Scary Bell just stares at me as I have a little, teeny, tiny mental breakdown.
“You know what, it’s okay, he’ll get one of my texts eventually and come get me! Whenevs! Ha! It’s fine. I was supposed to meet him at the site for a photo opp since the building is done, Dad’s orders. Bet you know all about that, right? Gotta love the family business! Ha!” I swallow but there’s no saliva left in my mouth so I end up making a few strange gargle-snort noises that are so gross and weird they will haunt my brain’s night-time-embarassing-moment-highlight-replay-reel for the rest of my life. “Really, it’s fine, you can go on, I’ll just wait here for Josh.”
“He’s not coming.”
“Oh. He’s not? Is he sick again? Ohhh, that’s probably why you’re here then? To fill in for him. Right. That makes sense.” I just nod, thinking through what all this means for me while Adam’s tight jaw twitches. “Do you think you could give me a ride to a gas station and then I could get one of those red plastic gas tub things and I guess get a ride back here and then head to the site. I’m going to be late but it’ll be fine I can—”
I am shut up by the sound of the passenger door swinging open. “I’ll take you to the site. Let’s go.”
“Really? Okay, thanks.” I say, turning to bend and reach for my big bag from the passenger seat. Again I’m getting all the stretchy bang out of my Banana Republic flexible work skirt buck. “But, what about my car?” I ask as I straighten and look at Adam, whose head is turned forward, both hands gripping the steering like he’s trying to break the wheel with his bare fists.
I don’t really want to share a ride with you either, dude.
His jaw muscles are clenching hard again. I wonder how many calories that burns because it seems to be a significant part of his daily cardio.
Without looking at me he answers, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Take care…what does that mean, exactly? Because my dad will kill me if I just leave it out here—” He sighs so low, so loudly it could almost be called a growl.
He looks back to me and talks slowly, like I’m a child. “I’ll have Ward get one of our gas cans from the site, bring it out here with one of his guys in another one of our trucks. They’ll fill your car and drive it to us while we’re doing the stupid crap for the newspaper.”
“Oh.” I lock my car and climb up into his truck, putting my keys in his outstretched hand. “Wait, we?” What he’s just said dawns on me as I pull his heavy truck door closed. Immediately I’m met with man-smell. Like wood shavings and salt plus a clean soapy scent too. It works, somehow. I like the aroma, actually. Something calming about it. Not calming enough, though. “ You’re doing the photo opp with me?”
He doesn’t respond. Just ignores me completely as he puts the truck in gear and merges back onto the empty highway. My brain, still reeling, takes in the driver’s general hatred for me and starts to picture him wielding a chainsaw in my direction.
No. Adam is a grouch, not a serial killer. Right? Right. Probably.
Damn, it’s hot in here.
I adjust the vent on my side to blow straight at my face and decide to take my blouse off. I have on a black cami underneath the bright purple shirt and if I keep it on, the pit stains that have started will grow. Then they will be visible and ruin the whole reason I’m stuck in a small truck cab with this irritated possible-killer in the first place—the photo opp.
“What are you doing?” This time it does sound like a question, but an exasperated, almost frantic one.
“Trying to salvage this shirt!” I bite back, just as frustrated. When I finally break free from the tight silky sleeves I whip the thing off and hold it up to the air vent, displaying the seams to him. “Ugh, why is it so hot? Can we turn the air up? I mean no, not up, down I guess? You know, colder? But blowing more? Ahh! You know what I mean!”
And I’m yelling now.
Great.
Slowly, wordlessly, with caution that makes me roll my eyes, Adam adjusts the thermostat.
I take a deep breath.
“Sorry. I’m just hot and gross and well, scared, I think.” He looks across at me, angry as ever. “Not of you! I mean, well, yes maybe of you. Ha ha ha,” Shut up, Susan! “ I just mean I was scared. Of being stranded out here alone.”
I expect something humane, something comforting from him. Not sure why because what he says is, “You should be scared.” When I gape at him in disbelief he barely lifts a shoulder. “It’s not safe out here. Should’ve checked your gas before you left.”
“Well, I realize that now, how helpful. Thank you.” I lay the sarcasm on thick. His scowl just deepens. “Ugh. Sorry again. You’re right.” I shake off the anger. Sarcasm is not helpful right now, as many a leadership communication book has taught me. “I do know better, but as I said, I didn’t do a road-trip checklist because it was a short trip and I was running late because of, wait for it, my sisters hogging the bathroom. And I hate running late. It’s just the worst, you know? Because you’re already stressed about whatever or wherever you’re going to?”
He doesn’t respond, making me feel even more stupid. I hope more of an explanation will help so I let the words tumble out.
“In this case it was my first big photo opp with your brother, so I was stressed about looking perfect for that like I always do. I mean, does the future CEO of Canton Cards wear her hair down or up? Is a bun too old ladyish? Is a low ponytail too Little House on the Prairie? Will your brother hate a low pony? Then I realized I can’t really care at all about what he wants when it’s a company photo. I just need to look professional. Plus, I have to wear our company color, purple, but what will he be wearing? Should I go with black or white instead?
“Soooo, by the time I landed on the side pony, wouldn’t you know it, I’m fifteen minutes behind. Which kills me because it adds another layer of anxiety, then you’re stressed about being stressed because then you’re sweating and,” I realize the amount of verbal diarrhea I’ve just spewed all over this guy’s precious silence, “yyyeaahhh, you end up blabbing and blabbing and holding your new silk blouse up in front of the air conditioning vents of maybe the only person you know who actively hates you.”
Note to future self. More explanation does not help.
Shocker of shockers, he doesn’t react to my rant. Not even to say he doesn’t hate me.
“Actually, you don’t know me well enough to hate me. So maybe just hate my family? Or our business? Women in general…life itself?…Oxygen?” Finally, he rolls his eyes to the ceiling before giving me the side eye. “Well, whatever it is that’s bothering you, sorry to add to it. Next time, I’ll go through a checklist, even if I’m running late.”
I think, if I strain with all the energy I’m not using to keep my face from getting even oilier in this heat, I hear a harrumph of acknowledgement. I decide to push my luck.
“So Josh isn’t coming, right?”
More glaring.
“Is he okay? Do you know? Is he sick again?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well do you—” I let my question die when I hear the squeak of the steering wheel’s leather crying out under his somehow even tighter grip. His fingers are turning white and I find myself feeling sorry for the poor fabric underneath them. “Right. First rule about Josh is that we don’t talk about Josh.” Adam looks at me like I’m insane. “Fight Club? Uh, never mind.”
I shut my mouth and keep it shut the rest of the drive.
The twenty minute drive.
Where he. Says. Nothing.
Not one question, not even another grunt or sigh.
I am getting myself a little treat for the unbelievable feat that is keeping my mouth shut right now. I want to fill the dead space. I need to.
But I remember once when my younger sister Sam, even more extroverted than me, she was babbling to a poor taxi driver on vacation. The man was just trying to get our large family from point a to point b without a fuss. He couldn’t really speak English yet my sister went on and on with questions and thoughts.
Finally, my mom turned, unusually exasperated and almost yelled, “Samantha! Learn to sit with the silence! Feel it like a ball in your hands and hold it all the way until we get out of this vehicle!”
I never forgot that moment, the way Sam drove us all nuts and how we all felt terrible for the driver. I also use the visual regularly in classes and meetings now. I don’t try to pop the silence, I just hold it. It can be a great tool in projecting false confidence. Mean girls, narcissists, loud talkers, manipulators, they all tend to squirm in the presence of someone who doesn’t need to get the last word.
But this one today, this ball of awkward nothingness I’m trying to hold—it is torture.
I want to ask him approximately 1.2 million questions.
Why are you so angry all the time?
Where is Josh?
Why is he sick so often?
Do you guys get along?
Does he still talk to other girls?
How does he really feel about marrying me?
When we arrive, I don’t even say thanks for the ride, I just jump out of the car to breathe. All that tension made me a little woozy. In happy contrast, it’s loud and exciting at the job site.
The building looks great, just like the renderings. I smile up at the huge glowing purple letters, proud of my last name and all my grandpa built. Excited to be here, to be a part of it all.
I turn to see Adam’s reaction, since this is a huge shopping center, not just our retail space, and it looks awesome. It’s sleek and cool and I’m positive all the spaces will be rented out by small businesses in no time.
This is good for the Bells just like it’s good for us.
But Adam is already across the parking lot pointing and grunting instructions and holding…a gas can.
Huh.
Maybe what he lacks in words he makes up for with action.
He didn’t even greet anyone before taking care of my issue. And he doesn’t even like me. Makes me wonder how he is with people he does like. If there are any.
Pft. Unlikely.
I don’t have time to think more about it because a reporter finds me and begins the rundown. Small platform for me to give a few words, big scissors, ribbon, photos, etc. I nod happily. All of it is standard stuff I’ve done a couple times. Dad is big on me getting practice and I enjoy the opportunity.
But I feel my smile deflate as I head to the little stage. I was supposed to do this with Josh. This was a moment for us, a milestone. I don’t even know where he is or why he isn’t coming. Maybe I’ll be brave and ask Adam later.
To his credit, the grump does do his part. He’s not smiling but he released those pesky jaw muscles and isn’t grimacing. In a flash, literally, it’s over. And it wasn’t too bad. I turn to thank Mr. Cantankerous but before I can even look in his direction he’s walked off the platform. As soon as my feet hit the ground after him, two very fit, very cute Black guys beam down at me with gorgeous white smiles.
“Miss Canton? I’m Ward, this is Raymond, we got your car for you.”
“Filled it up at the station and put a small gas can in the back. Got the charging cable.” Raymond smiles wide, as if the two of them are competing for Most Charming Employee. “Got the second kind of cord too like you wanted, that goes into the 12 volt port.”
They’ve lost me. “What’s a twelve volt port?”
“Oh, that’s what used to be a cigarette lighter. We ran it through the car wash too like you said.”
“I didn’t…”
“Here you go, little boss lady.” Ward offers me my keys.
I look around but The Other Bell is already gone. I shake my head in confusion as I thank Ward and Ray and stumble toward my sparkling car. In what world does Adam Bell, loathsome loather of all who loathe me, buy me phone cables and have my car washed? I mean… I guess a gentleman’s world?
Yes.
My dad would do that for “a lady,” no matter how he felt about her personally. The Bells are old school, like my dad and grandpa. Which is why I’m a pretty lucky gal to be marrying one of them. I’ll thank Adam next time I see him, which hopefully won’t be soon because… yikes. I cringe at myself as I reach my car, remembering how I made a big show of displaying the oval stains on the purple satin so he could clearly see them.
Now, though, I need to see about my Bell. I get out my phone and dial his number again. Because surely there’s a good explanation for why he missed our first ribbon cutting together.