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She must have realized it too, because she took a calming breath and lowered her voice. “This is difficult for both of us and we’re under a lot of stress right now. I don’t think this is what either of us had in mind when I agreed to you dropping us off.”
She might not have imagined this exact scenario, but part of her had to have expected something like it. I mean, this was me we were talking about. Saying I wasn’t at my best was an understatement for the ages, though she’d never put it out there quite so directly before. Then again, we hadn’t had a real conversation in the last sixteen months.
That shambles comment might sting a little, but it sounded right to me.
“At least I’m wearing clean underwear.” My clever attempt at tension-easing levity dropped at the precise moment the officers walked up to join us.
“Car’s clear,” one of them said uncomfortably. The other looked on without expression, though I knew they’d both heard me. “We still need to keep this area moving. We’ve got tow trucks on site if the guy your husband called doesn’t get here in the next five minutes.”
“He will, and thank you again for understanding.” Morgan gave them a smile that said she’d had enough of their bullshit, but she had a flight to catch and no time to throw down. “In fact, I think I see him now.”
Gene called the tow truck?
I had an ominous premonition that gave me chills despite the pre-dawn heat. I didn’t want it to be who I thought it was. There was no way my morning was about to go from worst case embarrassment to apocalyptic humiliation.
A door slammed on the other side of my car and Morgan said, “I’m so sorry, Wade. I told Gene not to bother you at this hour, but he refused to leave her paying an arm and a leg for a stranger that might not get her safely home.”
Gah. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that they’d call their closest friend, the mechanic who owned his own garage , to tow my car?
Too bad I couldn’t melt into the grimy, stained concrete beneath my slippers and magically reappear back in the safety of my living room. That would be a convenient power to have right now.
“Don’t worry about it. It gives me the chance to see you two off. I’ll go ahead and get this hooked up while you say your goodbyes.”
I kept my back to him, but I’d know that deep drawl anywhere. After all these years, it still had a disturbing ability to weaken my knees. It reminded me of sun-drenched melted honey, summers at swimming holes I’d never been to, and impossible Kama Sutra positions I’d always wanted to try.
“Can you give me a hand?” he asked.
I froze, thinking he was talking to me, but then one of the officers said, “Anything to keep the traffic moving.”
“She left the keys inside if you need them,” Morgan volunteered.
My hands tightened on my cup in annoyance. Don’t mind me. Why would I need to be a part of the discussion? I was only the car’s owner.
Could a person be sarcastically grateful? Because I didn’t want to deal with this or him, but I still wanted to complain about not being included.
“Gene looks upset for some reason,” Morgan said, her head angling in his direction, “but there shouldn’t be any problems. I weighed those suitcases twice.”
When I couldn’t unclench my jaw long enough to reply, she swore under her breath and pried one of my hands away from my cup to hold it in hers, compelling me to meet her gaze. She had Mom’s eyes. Sophia Loren eyes, I’d called them, a nod to the Sicilian father our mother had never known. They were distinctive, deep set and wide, only Morgan’s were the color of green sea glass instead of blue skies.
“We’re all good now, August,” she reassured me. “Wade is going to drop you off at home and fix the car, so problem solved. ”
If she thought that information would relax me, she was very much mistaken.
“And I’m going to FaceTime you every day I’m in Lesa before the cruise,” she continued, oblivious to my growing unease. “It’ll be like you’re there with me, and you won’t miss out on anything but the bad in-flight movie and the jet lag.”
She was trying to be kind after her brief flash of temper, but it felt like an unintentional knife sliding between my ribs. We both knew I was missing out on so much more than that. All because I hadn’t finished another book since my last release three years ago, and too much of the royalties I’d been living on since then had gone to doctor bills.
It didn’t feel like a good enough excuse to stay behind at the moment. Not for this trip. Not when we were supposed to bring Mom home together.
“Morgan, I?—”
“Damn it.” She stared at her husband, who was currently waving at her hard enough to flag down a passing jet. “Hold that thought, I’ll be right back after I sort out our luggage.”
Before I could decide whether to be annoyed or relieved by the interruption, she’d raced away from me and taken Gene’s place at the counter. Meanwhile, Gene made a beeline for the tow truck and the man I was still refusing to acknowledge.
I had to admit, my brother-in-law’s outfit did a good job of distracting me from my mood. In a painfully bright Hawaiian shirt, basketball shorts, socks and sandals—his pale bald head glowing beneath the harsh outdoor lighting—he looked more like an intimidating bull of a bouncer than an accountant.
A bouncer who always dressed like a color-blind eighty-year-old.
“Is there a problem?” Wade asked him.
I took a drink of my coffee without turning around. If they wanted me to move so I couldn’t hear their conversation, they would have to ask me nicely.
“Rick texted.” Gene sounded agitated. “Fucking Dave crashed the Mustang last night. I don’t know the extent of the damage, but we need to get it fixed before the race. Maybe the kid you’re renting out your apartment to can help out as a favor? You said you were thinking about adding him to the pit crew anyway. He may as well start now.”
My family was giving Hudson’s Garage a lot of work today.
And Wade renting out his apartment was news to me. He’d been there forever. When he was eighteen, he’d said it was his dream to live above his own shop. What changed? Had he met someone and things had gotten so serious he needed a bigger place?
Not that I cared.
“Take a breath, Bryant. I’ll find out what’s going on before you get back.”
Gene swore a mini blue streak. “We don’t have the time for this.”
“We have plenty of time, but you have a flight to catch. All you need to focus on now is being with your wife and enjoying yourself.”
Morgan reappeared at my side for a genuine but now slightly harried embrace. “I love you, but they won’t let you stay here much longer. I’ll be back in a few weeks. When I am, you can help with Mom’s last request, okay? Then maybe we can start talking about some next steps for you. You can’t keep going like this forever, August. She wouldn’t want that.”
“A few bumps in the road doesn’t mean you give up.”
The echo of my mother’s voice rocked me so hard, I closed my eyes and felt myself shrinking right there in Morgan’s arms. I was a kid again, helpless and hopeless, and she was the big sister obliged to come save the day .
I hated it.
August Retta. The late bloomer, the directionless dreamer, the lemon in the bunch. As my goddaughter Phoebe—a fan of all things Swift—would’ve said, It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem, it’s me.
Morgan let me go and smiled sadly. “Take care of my sister.”
My heart stumbled as she went to hug Wade while Gene wrapped me in his beefy arms and gave me a warm squeeze, rumbling unintelligible words of comfort.
They’re leaving. She’s leaving.
“As long as you take care of mine,” I said quickly when he let me go, swallowing my panic so she wouldn’t see it. “Be careful, okay? I love you both. And text me as soon as you land, no matter what time it is here.”
With one last meaningful look in my eyes, Morgan nodded. Then Gene took her hand and they both turned, disappearing moments later through the glass doors of the terminal.
Leaving me alone with the two security officers, Myrtle the currently-on-my-shit-list car, and Morgan’s mechanic bff, Wade Hudson.
“This is what you get.”
“Morning, Gus.”
I swiped at an escaping tear and made myself look at him, exceedingly grateful that the crush I’d harbored for this man throughout my youth as well as the first half of my adult life was all but forgotten. Everything about him irritated me now.
His knowing tricolor eyes—the brown and gold flecked with jade were too compelling to be called hazel—annoyed me. The impossibly wide shoulders that seemed ideal for clinging to or carrying weighty problems on were exasperating. And the face that had gone from teen heartthrob to slightly-weathered-but-still-irresistible cowboy over the last few decades? That got on my nerves too.
He was the manly equivalent of a Venus flytrap, as far as I was concerned. Everything about him was one hundred percent lady bait, I always fell for it, and none of it was for me. He wasn’t for me.
Not that I was fit for anyone in my current condition. I used to write about bold, confident women taking down restrictive magical monarchies and finding their soul mates in the process all day long. But even then, at the end of that day I would still be Only August. And Only August had been a flaming dumpster fire for years.
When I didn’t respond to his greeting, he looked concerned—or maybe he was wondering if there was any way he could get out of letting the dirty hobo woman into his nice clean tow truck. He did the enigmatic thing so well I honestly couldn’t tell with him.
Then he tipped his head in the security guards’ direction. “I’ve got the car hooked up, but those two might call for reinforcements if we don’t leave soon.”
He had a point—one had his arms crossed over his chest and the other looked like he might be reaching for his radio.
“Come on.” He opened the passenger door. “Hop in and I’ll take you home.”
After a terse “Thanks,” I ignored his outstretched hand and climbed into the cab of his truck on my own.
Once the door shut, I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes, hoping he’d assume I was tired or trying not to cry because my sister was going to Italy without me.
Both of those things were true. It was also true that I didn’t want to waste my time attempting inane chitchat with someone who would end up ignoring me the way Wade usually did.
I didn’t care how attractive he was or how good he smelled, there was only so much I could take in one pre-morning, and I was now at my limit.
After we pulled onto the freeway, a ringtone echoed through the truck, followed by a voice booming over the sound system. “Wade? ”
“Rick. Any reason you inconsiderately fucked with Gene’s head right before he flew overseas?”
“I was considerate.”
There was a scuffle in the background and another male voice I recognized joined the call. “The car wasn’t in a fender bender, Wade,” Gene’s friend Lucy said flatly. “It’s toast.”
How were they all awake at this hour?
“Fucked up beyond all recognition and heading for the junkyard. Dave screwed us last night, and if Rick’s expression is any indication, he’s lucky he’s still spending time in the drunk tank.”
“Shit.”
“That’s about our sentiment on the subject. We were thinking we could get a new car PDQ and you could get started tricking it out before Gene gets home. It might keep him from beating Dave to death with the Mustang’s crumpled bumper.”
“I’d like in on that action,” Rick said darkly.
“He’ll only be gone a few weeks.” Wade sounded exasperated. “Let me make some calls.”
“Tell your contacts we’re not feeling picky. It’s called 24 Hours of Lemons for a reason. Any car can be a racecar, especially with you as our pit crew.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you two later.”
They hung up without saying goodbye, which was rude, but my mind was too busy reeling with new information to ponder the off-putting phone etiquette of the male species.
A plan was starting to come together in my head. Admittedly, it was kind of out there—bordering on potentially insane—but it was a plan. A year and a half ago, I would have refused to even consider it, but now? It might be exactly what I needed to help me deal with what I was missing out on. It would certainly be more proactive than feeling sorry for myself while accepting all the FaceTiming and wish-you-were-here postcards that were about to come my way.
If I’d learned anything in the last forty-three years—which was debatable after this morning—it was that there was a very fine line between a stroke of genius and a shit sandwich. I might have crossed that line too many times to be entirely confident in my own decision-making skills, but something was telling me this time could be different.
The lemon in the bunch…
It’s called 24 Hours of Lemons for a reason…
Any car can be a racecar…
Stroke of genius? Or shit sandwich? There was really only one way to find out.