Chapter 8
The afternoon sun streams through the open windows as I drive along the mostly quiet country road, taking advantage of the warm fall day before the cold snap the weather app calls for.
After he bandaged me up this morning and we shared that weird moment in the barn, I hightailed it back to the house, desperate for something to do to take my mind off it.
Tabitha took mercy and gave me a shopping list and the keys to her Jeep.
It didn’t take long, but the trip to the hardware and feed stores was the most exciting thing on my schedule this week.
It made me realize how much I miss the structure of working every day, with deadlines and projects.
Even though I’m not excited about the products, it’s time I stop neglecting my social media clients.
I’ll give myself the rest of today, and tomorrow I’ll open my inbox and see what’s waiting for me.
I make a left onto the two-lane highway that heads straight to Salem Stables, my karaoke sing-along interrupted by the sudden jerk of the Jeep.
I clench the wheel tighter, but after that sharp pull to the left, all I feel is resistance.
What the hell is going on? I didn’t hit anything.
I take my foot off the gas, quickly scanning the dashboard for flashing lights —something to tell me what is wrong with the vehicle —but everything looks normal.
A car behind me honks, then veers past me.
“Shit,” I mutter.
There’s no way I can make it back to the farm like this.
I need to pull over, but the steering wheel feels locked.
With both hands, I crank the wheel as hard as I can, easing to the right until I slowly stop on the gravel shoulder, surrounded by farmers’ fields.
I punch on the hazards and kill the engine, slumping back in the seat.
I’ve passed the outskirts of town, too far to try and push through the rest of the way home and far enough away from town that I’m surrounded by nothing.
A frustrated growl rips through me and I repeatedly tilt my head against the headrest. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Of course, this is happening to me.” Just call me the luckiest girl alive.
I call Tabitha, who agrees to come and get me as soon as she can get out of her meeting.
Grabbing my purse, I leave the reusable shopping bag with the rest of my goods on the seat, lock the car and start my journey to town on foot along the deserted country road, surrounded by nothing except fields that look as barren as my future.
I walk for about twenty minutes before signs of civilization pop up around me and I spot the small diner on the corner where I told Tabitha I’d wait.
It’s the last unit in a small business plaza with a bakery, a health food store, and a bar at the opposite end that looks closed.
Too bad. Despite the early hour, I could use a drink.
Soft bells jingle overhead as I enter the diner. The scent of French fry grease greets me instantly. I find a seat, and the cracked vinyl squeaks under my jean-clad thighs. I peer through the menu, not because I’m hungry but because it’s what you’re supposed to do.
The server pops over, her round face open and friendly. “What can I get you?” She looks a few years younger than me, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and a few strands of light hair coming loose from her bun.
“Onion rings, and the number for a psychic if you have one. I think I’m cursed.”
She tucks her notepad into her apron without bothering to write down my order. “No problem and check the bulletin board on your way out for the number.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
She chuckles, nodding. “Entertainment is scarce around here. We get desperate. I’ll get your order in.”
Before she walks away, I ask for a couple of kid menus and a spare black marker, which she delivers a few minutes later with no comment.
While I wait for my food, I flip the first menu over to the back and stare at the blank page.
I haven’t done any calligraphy since the business fell through, and even though I miss it, I’ve been afraid to return to it in case it makes things worse.
Finally, I begin to doodle. Over and over, I draw my name in calligraphy-style letters, some round and bubbly, others narrow and pointed. Slightly hindered by my bandaged hands, it’s not as good as my usual work, but I manage, the familiar strokes soothing my frazzled nerves.
“Most people want them for the word search,” the server says when she returns, examining the now-filled menu over my shoulder. I push the placemats out of the way to make room for the plate she puts down in front of me. “That’s pretty neat. Did you teach yourself to do that?”
“It’s not as hard as it looks.” I hold up my heavily bandaged hand as proof. “Anyone can do it. Trust me, I’ve run workshops for people without a creative bone in their body.”
“You teach this?”
I nod. “Lots of birthdays, girls’ nights—”
“Bachelorette parties?”
“Exactly! Here.” I gesture for her to sit and push my plate out of the way, pulling the placemats back into place. “What’s your name?”
“Veronica. Not with a ‘k.’”
I draw her name on a blank spot on the menu, then hand her the marker to try. She follows my instructions on when to put more pressure on the tip, brows knit together in concentration.
“See? You’re a natural.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s so fun!” Veronica says excitedly. “I would totally do this with my friends.”
I grin, feeling the same rush of possibility after giving an elevator pitch that goes exceptionally well.
But I know she’s right—tons of people would want to do this, which is precisely why Lyla and I thought it would be worth investing in.
I still can’t believe we’re leaving the opportunity untapped.
“This is like, totally fate or whatever that you’re here,” Veronica says.
“My best friend is getting married in a couple of weeks and her sister is the maid of honor—which I like, totally don’t mind, because they’re family, you know?
—only she dropped the ball big time on planning the bachelorette party, so now we’re scrambling to find something, and this—well, this sounds perfect! ”
“Oh. Well…”
I’m stunned speechless as I think it over.
I thought getting back into calligraphy might be too much of a reminder of what I’d lost, but that’s not something I’m going to forget easily, regardless.
Maybe letting myself have it in my life, even in the small, side-hustle way it was before, would be enough to soften the blow.
Hosting one event might even offer the closure I need to let go of that dream and move on.
In the last five minutes here with Veronica, my stress levels have dropped.
I might not have been looking for this, but—unless the universe is playing tricks on me—this could be the best thing to happen to me lately.
“Sorry, forget I said anything,” Veronica says, standing, her cheeks slightly pink as she forces a laugh. “I’ve been told I have a habit of inserting myself uninvited.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Wait—seriously? Because you would be literally saving us, you have no idea.”
She looks up as the bell jingles above the door.
“You called for a chauffeur?”
My spine stiffens at the gruff, familiar voice behind me. I spin around to find Parker hovering in the doorway, hands shoved into his coat pockets, face painted with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”
“Driving Miss Daisy, apparently.”
Impatiently, I wave Parker over to the table, since he has no concerns about having this conversation loudly enough to disturb the other diners.
I scribble my number on a blank corner of the menu and tear it off for Veronica.
“Here’s my number. Call me with the details, and we’ll figure something out. ”
Veronica slips away as Parker reaches the table.
“What was that all about?”
“Where’s Tabitha?” I ask when he reaches me, ignoring his question.
“She was working when you called, so she asked me to come and save your ass. You’re welcome.”
Thanks, Tabitha. It is as if Parker needs more ammunition to believe I’m a helpless princess.
Veronica chooses that moment to swing by with the check, leaving it on the table with a smile that she dials up a notch when aimed at Parker.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, trying to cover the unexpected edge in my voice with my own smile.
I reach into my purse for my wallet, my heart dropping with a plunk to my shoes as I come up empty.
Crap. Did it fall out on the side of the road on my walk here?
Getting more frantic, I dig through my jacket pockets before realizing what I’ve done.
Oh no. My wallet isn’t on the side of the road.
It’s in the shopping bag on the passenger seat of the Jeep.
I look up wide-eyed at Parker, who’s watching me knowingly with a quirked brow.
My cheeks redden. “I swear I didn’t plan this. ”
With an eye roll and a sigh, he drags the bill towards him with a blunt fingertip, reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his faded jeans, and dropping some cash on the table. “Let’s go, your highness,” he says brusquely before I can thank him, brushing past me.
Oh, how I love to be rescued.
He props the door open with his forearm for me to pass under.
“I’ll pay you back.”
He ignores me, whipping his head to scan the parking lot. “Where’s the Jeep?”
“I thought Tabitha filled you in?”
“She said you had car trouble and that you were here.”
“Yeah, her Jeep broke down.”
“What?” he snaps. “Where?” I point down the dusty country highway. “Shit. Are you okay?”
“Um … yes?”
He lifts his eyebrows, probing. “I thought your car wouldn’t start, or you ran out of gas, or something.” He ignores the unimpressed look I give him for that one. “You weren’t in an accident?”
Is that worry I detect? “No,” I say slowly. “I think something is wrong with the steering. I pulled over because I didn’t think it was safe to drive home and I didn’t want to make anything worse.”
He nods, then jerks his head, signaling me to get into the truck.
As I climb in, I can’t take my eyes off the hard line of his stubble-covered jaw as he settles in behind the wheel opposite me.
He shoves the keys in the ignition, pausing before turning it on.
He doesn’t meet my eye when he speaks, but his voice is much softer now.
“Tell me again what’s wrong with the car? ”
For a second, I wonder if this is a test and brace myself to get mansplained all the way home. But there’s something different in his expression than when he first walked into the diner, maybe even since I met the guy.
“Beats me. All I know is that in one minute, everything was fine, but then the wheel jerked, and I could barely move it enough to pull over.”
“That’s … unlucky.”
I let out a long sigh. “Nope,” I mutter quietly. “Just my life.”
Although maybe not forever, I remind myself as I think about my chat with Veronica inside.
Reaching past me, he pops the glove box open and pulls out a cell phone that looks functional, if a little old and a lot beat up—kind of like his truck.
“I don’t know much about cars, but my buddy Sam’s a mechanic. I’m gonna call him and see if he can help.”
When someone picks up on the other end, Parker quickly explains the situation.
As he tells him where to find us, I marvel at the realization that this might be the longest conversation we’ve had without a hint of sarcasm.
There’s a pause on the other end before the muffled voice begins again, and a flush creeps over the collar of Parker’s corduroy jacket. “No one. Can you help or not?”
He jerks the phone away from his face, hangs up while the voice is still talking, tosses the phone back in the glove box and fires up the engine.
“He’ll meet us there.”