Chapter 2 #2
We make our way through the lot as Zola physically shakes off the messages that I’m sure will haunt her for years to come.
“Why are you even on there?” she asks once we reach the car. “Those guys are the stuff local news stories are made of. And look at you.”
“Oh relax. Great women have been having mediocre sex with terrible men since the dawn of time.” Probably. “There’s nothing wrong with soliciting a consensual dick pic every now and then.”
“There is if you’re doing it to avoid actual conversations with men who don’t speak in innuendos and eggplant emojis. Real-life, grown men who understand that the word hello must precede a request that you sit on their face.”
After loading the back seat with what would appear to be the take from a grocery heist committed by a couple of six-year-olds, I join Zola up front.
“I know too much about grown men to want to have conversations with them. This way it’s like visiting monkeys at the zoo—fun, but from a safe distance, so there’s minimal risk of them flinging shit in your face and then ripping it clean off.”
Her black-brown eyes roll so far into her head that for a moment, they’re all whites and spider lashes. That’s when you know she’s all the way over you.
“You’re better than this,” she says, pulling out of her parking space.
I tear a donut in half, handing Zola the smaller piece. “I promise you I’m not.”
“How long has it been since you went out with someone?”
“I—”
She holds up her donut to stop me. “In real life, in public, with your clothes on.”
I shrink back into my seat. “Oh. Well, yeah, that’s different.”
I open my mouth to continue pleading my case, but Zola interrupts me again. “Shit, hold that thought. I gotta pee.”
She spins the wheel back toward the store’s entrance, ignoring my protests—we’re only a few minutes from home, can’t you hold it, etc.—and mumbles something about baby heads and bladders, before hopping out.
—
I start my Netflix search while I wait for Zo to return.
Her movie night viewing habits demand that I make our selection before she gets a chance to weigh in—lest I spend the next several hours stuck in a raspy Kate Hudson, smiley Julia Roberts rom-com haze.
But a tap on the window distracts me from my perusal.
The man waves, as if he’s expecting me to return the gesture. I don’t.
“Do you need something?” I say, from behind the closed window. Despite the fact that it’s the middle of the day and there are countless people passing in and out of the overpriced grocery store beside me, I still double-check the car door locks. Ways Not to Die 101.
He smiles at the realization that we’ll be doing this at full volume. I don’t return that gesture either.
“You can’t park here,” he says, still blinding me with teeth so white they’re glowing.
My eyes drop to his chest, in search of a green grocery apron, police badge, or something else to explain his presence, but he’s got on a simple gray T-shirt and blue jeans.
The relaxed outfit offsets his square chin and prominent cheekbones in a way that screams, Sure I’m a model, but look—I’m just like the rest of you mortals.
Admittedly the clothing choice is working for him.
Accentuating a physique that’s very likely not the result of afternoon car donuts.
It feels like a personal attack that he looks that good in such a haphazard outfit while I currently look like the before on a transformation post. And can someone please explain why nature wastes perfectly curled lashes and flawless skin on Black men while the rest of us go broke on mascara and concealer, trying to keep up?
He mistakes my inaction for confusion.
“You’re in front of the hydrant,” he explains further. “You can’t be parked here.”
He’s right that I’m confused, but not about the intricacies of local parking ordinances.
“Do you work here?” I ask, through the still closed window.
He leans his entire six-foot-something self onto the passenger door of Zola’s SUV, like we’re old friends, catching up. Like maybe he’ll stay awhile.
The casual nature of his posture momentarily stuns me, but his single-syllable response (“Nah”) ignites a new spark of determination. “Are you some sort of plainclothes parking attendant?”
His face cracks into a near smile that he suppresses with the flick of his tongue before catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “Nope.”
“So, you’re here to—” I pause, unable to come up with an insult that sufficiently conveys my disbelief at the exchange. “I’m sorry, explain to me why we’re having this conversation?”
“They stay towing cars out here,” he says, the tone of his muffled voice alternating between indifference and amusement. “But if you’re really trying to park here—”
“I’m not even parked,” I bark back, exhausted by the utter maleness of this chastisement.
The crease of his brow activates the slightest flare of his nostril. “You’re not parked?”
“My hazards are on,” I tell him, and I don’t even care that I’m not making sense. He’s not making sense.
At that, he has the audacity to laugh. Out loud. In my face. A head tipped, gaping mouth laugh.
He recovers, and—to my great disappointment—continues. “So, your car’s in…which gear?”
That’s it. We’re done here.
I roll down the window just enough that I won’t have to say this next part on a yell, but not so much that he can take my purse or my person—or my donut.
“Look, I can appreciate that you’ve lived with a certain expectation that everyone’s just dying to hear your big, strong, alpha-male opinion, so this isn’t entirely your fault. And as Fairfield’s self-appointed parking authority, I understand you feel a certain obligation to—”
“Oh, now I’m an alpha for trying to save you a tow.” He’s playful when he says it—mischievous, like a cat batting at a mouse. Too bad I refuse to play dead.
“Ah,” I say, raising a finger. “See, I think that’s our disconnect. I didn’t actually order saving today. Must’ve gotten the wrong car.”
He pulls himself off the car, extending to his full height again. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
I shrug, my tone turning as saccharine as my girlish grin. “Happens.”
And without missing a beat, this man says, “I bet it happens to you a lot.”
Now, hold the fuck up. “What’s that supposed to—”
But he doesn’t let me finish.
“Look, there’s a lot going on here,” he says, with enough sense to finally look mildly uncomfortable.
“How ’bout I go inside and work on my social deconditioning and I’ll let somebody else deal with all this.
” He says it while waving in the general direction of the car before pausing his hand directly in front of my face. Like I’m the asshole.
“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” I say, dismissing him by turning my attention back to my phone.
In my peripheral view, I vaguely see his thick eyebrows rise as he mouths something that looks a lot like Wow as he retreats. I nearly bite my tongue off to keep from engaging further.
And did I already mention the universe hates me? Because not even two seconds later, a car door slams behind me and when I look to the side mirror, an actual real-life uniformed officer is approaching.
I roll my window down and smile up at him, in an attempt to juxtapose the smoke billowing from my ears.
“Ma’am,” he begins. “You know you’re parked in front of a yellow curb?”
I try to remember if it’s illegal to scream in an officer’s presence if you’re not screaming at the officer. Just a scream. Just to get it out.
“Mm-hmm,” I begin, through closed lips. I don’t yet trust myself to open my mouth (for fear of the scream). “Got it,” I say, once it feels safe to speak. “I’m moving.”
I shovel the last of the donut into my mouth while crawling over the center console. Fucking cops. Fucking men. Fucking Zola’s weak-ass fucking bladder.
Once I’ve settled into the driver’s seat, I turn to wave at the officer walking back to his cruiser and lock eyes with Mr. Save the Day Samaritan.
“I bet you’re loving this,” I yell through the now open window.
“I don’t even know what this is,” he shouts back before disappearing inside, behind the obnoxiously sunshiny beach display I suddenly want to destroy.
When Zola opens the passenger door a few minutes later, I’m parked as far from the entrance and any yellow curbs as humanly possible, replaying the nightmare that just unfolded on a loop. Only in my version, there’s violence.
She sees me fully reclined in the driver’s seat with an arm slung over my eyes, but she can’t possibly know the emotional minefield she’s entering.
“Hey,” she says casually, buckling her seat belt. “I couldn’t find you. Why’d you move?”
Don’t hit a pregnant woman, don’t hit a pregnant woman, don’t hit a pregnant woman.
“Is there wine at the house or should I stop on the way?”