Chapter 4
What is it about family and old stomping grounds that brings out your angsty inner teen in sixty seconds or less? Back in city limits and immediately back in time. As evidenced by the surreal string of texts hitting my phone.
Liv: You should come! Everybody’s here
Liv Foster’s been my best friend since forever. Which is why when she says “everybody,” I die a little, picturing the impromptu high school reunion of my literal nightmares. It’s also the reason I can’t figure out why this invite sounds like an afterthought.
Me: You’re already there? Why didn’t you hit me earlier? And since when does Speckled Pig do private events?
Liv: These are all questions you can ask when you get here. COME!
I hear it in her usual singsong tone but still take notice that this must’ve been why Liv couldn’t pick me up earlier. I hadn’t expected her to drop everything for my last-minute return, but I also kind of had.
Me: Today’s already been a week.
Liv: My train’s in a couple hours. You have a hard out!
Me: should we just meet up in the city next week then?
Liv’s been in Manhattan since her parents divorced the summer before she started NYU.
Pitting Mommy and Daddy against each other kept Liv well fed and well housed all four years, despite the city’s soaring real estate costs.
Oh, to have estranged parents desperate to buy your love.
I can’t even get a three-dollar birthday card out of dear old dad.
Of course, that would require that he remember a birthday.
Liv: JUST COME!
I’m tapping out a firmer no, when Liv says a few of my favorite shut-me-up words:
Liv: I’ll buy all your drinks.
Talk about burying the lead.
Me: On my way.
—
It might’ve been my responsibility to notice the charge on Mom’s car was in the red before ducking onto these backstreets to avoid rush-hour traffic, but I didn’t. And what good is that kind of thinking anyway, now that I’ve already lurched to a dead stop on the road’s nonexistent shoulder.
I allow myself exactly five seconds to curse everyone and everything before flipping on my hazards and assessing my surroundings.
Minutes ago, I would’ve described the lush Connecticut greenery overtaking this two-lane road against a backdrop of a true-blue evening sky as picturesque.
But in this current predicament, my brain is doing its fun little party trick—mentally cataloging all the cold cases I’ve seen that begin under circumstances similar to my own.
Overgrown woods aren’t quite as picturesque if your lifeless body is being hurled into them.
Cell service out here has always been spotty at best, but even the universe must realize that particular joke is played out. On my third attempt, the search results for local tow companies magically load.
Before my finger can tap call on the first link, something big pulls up behind me. Parked, bumper to bumper—so close I can’t make out what it is. Probably one of those white conversion vans with “candy” and “puppies” inside.
Mom better be kind when choosing the photo to run with the story of my disappearance. And Zola already knows to wipe my search histories clean.
A knock at the window interrupts my panic. The glass is almost completely filled by the nondescript gray fabric covering this guy’s broad abdomen—easily the width of two of mine. So much for overpowering him.
I take my eyes off the window just long enough to unlock my phone and debate whether I should use this last opportunity to call the police or Zola. Something tells me the latter might actually be the smarter choice. I’ve seen Taken, and Liam Neeson’s got nothing on Zo.
The guy raps on my window again, his face replacing his body in my view. The sight of it shakes me to my very core.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Of course, when Mr. Save the Day (Again) Samaritan isn’t enforcing parking ordinances at local grocery stores, he’s some sort of F-150-driving forest ranger. And of course he is here with me now.
“Hey,” he yells. Even the glass muffling his voice doesn’t hide his amusement. “Need some help?”
Where’s the guy in the ski mask when you want him?
“No thanks,” I say, trying to remember what are words. “I’m good.”
I give a lame little wave when I say the last part, to really sell it.
He’s not convinced. “Cars fly down this road. Let me at least get you off the bend.”
I hold up my phone and say, “My boyfriend’s actually on his way now.” Impressed by how effortlessly I deliver the lie.
“Oh, cool,” he says. “I’ll wait in my truck till he gets here. Make sure you’re good.”
I don’t take my eyes off his truck in the rearview as I call for a tow. I only pray they won’t hang up on me when I ask if, in addition to the auto service, they’re also willing to fake date me for a few minutes.
They answer on the first ring. “Pops Towing.”
“Hey, my car just died. Is there somebody who can meet me out in Westport?”
“Yeah. I’m actually out that way now,” he says, like the absolute hero he is. “What are your cross streets?”
“I’m at Greens Farm and…” I scan the street, embarrassed that I have absolutely no clue.
“Maple?” he suggests. “Westbound?”
“Maybe…yeah?” I offer, weakly.
“White Audi?”
“Yeah, how’d you—”
Before I can finish my question, there’s another knock on my window. Whole Foods guy is back, holding his phone up so I can see the active call. When he puts it back to his ear, I hear him through the window, but also through my phone.
“You’re gonna have to come out now, so I can hook you up to my truck.”
And then I burst into flames.
—
When my foot hits the pavement, his tow truck comes into full view and my face burns red-hot. The side door is tagged with Pops’ Auto Shop and what must be their logo: a cartoon drawing of a Black man in a rocking chair wearing a Kool-Aid grin. Not exactly the slaughter mobile I’d imagined.
He walks me to the passenger side to get the door.
I’m tempted to point out that I can open my own door thankyouverymuch, but I can’t form the words around my own foot, still lodged firmly in my mouth.
I squeak out a pathetic “Thanks” instead.
Because though technically I still didn’t order his saving, in this moment, I am, in fact, in need of it.
His legs make quick work of the jog back to the driver’s side. Even in this behemoth of a vehicle, this guy dwarfs the cabin with his presence. Well, him and the elephant-size discomfort shoehorned between us.
I don’t know how long I’ve had this death grip on my phone, but when my fingers start to cramp, I loosen it—though I refuse to release it entirely. What else am I going to do with my hands?
“I’m just gonna pull in front,” he says, maneuvering the truck into position and jumping out to get to work.
I’m alone in the pristine cab, hammering out a message to Zola with entirely too much backstory, when the door opens again. Sooner than I’d expected. The truck shifts under his weight, and I freeze. Like if I’m still enough, he might not notice me. Sitting here. In his truck.
The heat of his body beside me is suffocating enough, but when he reaches into the center console for a business card, his knuckles skim my elbow, and I jump out of my skin.
“Sorry,” he says, trying to cover his laugh.
I attempt to play off my obvious overreaction. Adjusting my body again and again, with equally jerky movements as if perhaps that’s just how bodies move. It is not.
I know I should leave it alone now, but I simply cannot.
“Oh, it’s me!” I screech, before trying again. “I mean mine. My fault.” And then, because my brain has short-circuited, I keep saying all the words. “I was in the way. That was my bad. With your fingers.”
“You’re good,” he says, lip still quirking as he jots notes on his clipboard.
I’ve only been in this guy’s presence for a matter of minutes, but already I recognize that thing his mouth is doing as he bites back his smile.
After my reaction to the accidental elbow graze, I don’t blame him for announcing his plans to reach over into the glove box to retrieve a stapler.
His movements are focused and direct—he hardly enters my bubble—but it doesn’t stop anxiety from prickling the tips of my fingers now that we’re only inches apart.
I direct all my focus to the first thing I see to ground myself, fixating on the subtleties of every tattoo painting his arms as they flex and relax with each stroke of his pen.
I craft a detailed backstory for every intricate symbol and decide on hyperspecific names for the colored ink bringing them to life.
But when the malachite stem of a carmine dahlia leads directly into a vein that snakes up his forearm, my eyes stray from the flower, following the lines of his biceps instead.
It’d be easier to pretend he hadn’t caught my gaze trailing across his skin if he wasn’t sinking his teeth into his bottom lip like that.
Mischief dances in his eyes as he clears his throat. “What’s your name?”
“Kaia?” I say, like I’m guessing. “Harper.”
He mouths it silently as he makes that final note on his paperwork. I’d never really considered the exact shapes my name might make crossing a person’s lips, but now that I’ve seen it form on his mouth, I won’t forget.
He releases his paper from the clamp and holds it out to me, careful not to let so much as a stray fingernail cross onto my side of the console.
“That’s everything you’ll need.”
“Thanks,” I say, pretending to survey it before shoving it into my purse.
“Should we wait for your boyfriend here? Or I can take you to the shop or a charge station and he can meet us there.”
“Oh! My boyfriend.” I enunciate it, as if it’s my first time hearing the word in my life.
6:12 p.m. Shit. If I don’t get to Liv soon, I’ll miss her completely.
“Actually, is there any way you could take me to the Speckled Pig and I’ll grab the car tomorrow? We’re so close, and that’s where I’m supposed to meet…him…my boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyeing me. “Sure.”
“He’s already there,” I continue. “So…”