Twenty
Rilee
Moments of hazy headiness bubbled up the rest of the evening, but nothing was as debilitating as that first experience.
Sitting next to me was the man of my literal dreams, and all around me was my dream itself.
Down to the lavender flavored beef. And the dancing cow.
Usually, the cow was a prop pushed around on the stage.
I’d never heard of an actual actor playing the cow in Into the Woods.
That’s not something I would think up on my own.
Not only did I dream Craig and all his broad‐shouldered cragginess, but I dreamed this date.
Before it happened. If it wasn’t so enjoyable it would be disturbing.
Craig was easy to be with. Present but not imposing. Steady with a touch of cinnamon. And frustratingly surprising. The flannel wearing pickup driving guys I’d known before wouldn’t have been caught dead at a musical, let alone eating lavender flavored steak. And liking it.
The play was good. The script was excellent, as was the energy, though the actual acting was average and the singing not always on key.
But the experience was still fun. I couldn’t really remember a night this good.
Maybe junior prom with that great blue dress.
But a glance at lanky Kenneth Palmer’s fingers didn’t give me the shivers like Craig’s strong deliberate hands.
After the house lights came up we talked a little more. Him about his dad who’d just retired from the lumber yard, and me about my coast trip last year. I’d been close to his hometown. When he stood up to go I was a little surprised, but it was getting late and we did have a drive back.
We took the steps down slowly, which I was thankful for.
Despite having only soda to drink, the sensations of the whole evening left me woozy and unreasonably relaxed.
Face planting because I’d stumbled down the stairs was not the memorable way I wanted to end tonight.
He matched my slow two steps per stair descent and by the time we reached the exit we were the last ones inside besides the staff bussing tables.
Outside it was dark, as only a wet overcast sky can be dark.
The heavy rain had turned into a light mist in the unseasonably warm night air.
We meandered to my car in a laggy pace through the mostly empty gravel lot, the misty air painting halos around the lights as it clung to the fuzzy ends of my sweater.
Reaching my car I turned to face Craig, his scarred hands hanging at his sides, his worn brown coat zipped up across his chest to his neck. “I had a really good time,” I said, reaching one hand to take his hand, my fingers feeling the lines and soft calluses of his.
“Thanks for coming,” he answered. I smiled in return, looking up at his late day beard growth beginning to shimmer with moisture. Leaning up, my other hand fingered the short hairs at the back of his neck and I kissed him on the cheek, the prickle of his skin pleasantly drawing across my lips.
Pulling away I couldn’t quite look at him, barely managing to allow myself a peek at the corner of my vision. “Call me,” I asked, fumbling with my keys. “You have my number.”
“Okay. If you’d like that.”
If I’d like that? I would like that! I should have kissed him on the lips. Would that be too forward? At this moment I regretted driving two cars. “Call me,” I repeated before climbing into my vehicle.
My heater kicked in and the wipers squeaked as I backed the car up and turned to drive home.
Call me, I’d said. He’d asked me out twice now and I was still putting the ball back in his court.
What were you afraid of Rilee? Mr. Lambert, I ticked off.
The administration interview. Looking Jackie Mace in the eye.
Craig’s sharp yell at the game. The question about whether to invite my dad to a wedding.
Or commitment ceremony. Or, whatever. Maybe Craig doesn’t do weddings.
Why was I thinking about weddings? I missed the turn to the highway.
My GPS was chirping at me about a correction and I turned the wheel.
The car moved right when I’d turned it left and now we were moving sideways.
The last time I moved sideways was sledding as a college student, and that was right before I lost control and rolled.
Shit. My headlights flashed across foliage and then empty air.
Pumping the breaks I felt something catch and turned the wheel back, trying to correct the slide.
I tasted cola at the back of my throat as my stomach leaped into my chest before the nose of my car dove downward.
Dirt and branches splashed across the windshield.
Hissing scrapes tickled over the roof of the car and my throat felt sore as the vehicle came to a stop.
Sucking in a breath I realized I’d stopped screaming.
The seat belt was locked making it hard to take a breath.
Other than my gasping everything was still, until the windshield wiper scraped across the glass, struggling against the debris. I counted the cycles. Once. Twice.
Crack. I leaped and then screamed at my immobility, the seat belt imprisoning me. Right beside my ear something smacked into the window glass. I couldn’t get the door open but fumbling with the controls the window slid down.
“Are you alright?” Odd shadows clung to Craig’s face and his hair stuck limply to his forehead.
“All right?” I asked.
“Can you feel your feet, are you bleeding?”
The questions snapped me back. First aid.
The checklist. I wiggled my toes and could feel the boot leather through my thin socks.
No problems. I felt my face and neck, no pain, no blood.
“I think so. I mean no. I mean yes, I think I’m alright.
” Nervous, I tried to take a breath but couldn’t. “The seatbelt.”
“It’s locked.”
“I can’t get out.” It wouldn’t release.
Craig straightened up. “The car is still running, no airbags,” he said to himself. Leaning back down he looked around the interior. “Can you slide the seat back?”
“What?” I must have hit my head. Was he trying to get in with me?
“Slide the seat back, it should lessen the pressure on the belt lock and allow you to open it.”
“Oh.” It worked. I pushed the seat back a few inches and the seat belt unlatched when I pushed the button.
“Okay, leave the car running.” Reaching through the window, Craig unlocked the door and opened it. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Slowly, with one hand on the car and the other in Craig’s, I stepped out. My left foot sunk into the muck up to the ankle. I stumbled when I tried to stand falling against the damp fabric of Craig’s coat.
“Oh.” Cold wet mud squelched between my toes. I’d lost my ankle boot in the mud.
“Come on,” Craig grunted. Together we took a step away from the car and I could finally take in the scene.
At the top of a small rise, maybe ten feet, big headlights splashed bright white light everywhere.
Two furrows of tire tracks came down the bank plowing the muddy undergrowth.
My car rested at the bottom of a low wide ravine.
Thick brush pressing against my grill and hood had stopped me from crunching into a tree trunk a few yards further on.
Together we fought the mud up the embankment. Climbing the rise, I realized Craig had one hand on me and one hand on a cane which he used to push up the hill and against the mud. At the top I collapsed against the side of his truck.
“It happened so fast,” I said dumbly.
With a groan Craig pressed his back against the truck’s door. “It’s wet and too warm. The ground is frozen down below but on top it’s just a slurry with no drainage for the rain. I saw you try and take the turn but the mud took you down.”
Heat flushed through me. I waited for the angry accusatory, “if you would have …” but it never came.
“Your car is still running and I don’t smell antifreeze so I think it’s okay, though the alignment is probably going to need some work.” As he looked back up the dark road, I saw the wheels in Craig’s head come to a stop.
“It’s a long way for a tow truck, and really late. Probably at least a two-hour wait. I think we try and pull you out. Can’t make it worse.”
Craig threw red flares on either side of us and backed the truck up. “Have you ever run a winch before?”
“What’s a winch?”
He didn’t laugh but a small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“It’s not hard. Because of the rain and the mud I’m going to lash up and then go back down for your car.
Stay here.” From the box behind the truck cab he pulled out a length of cordage and wrapped it around the tree on the other side of the roadway, a few feet up the hillside, and secured it to the back of the truck.
With a light touch on my elbow he brought me to the front of his pickup.
Standing between the twin beams of the headlights he spoke loudly over the engine.
“This is a winch,” he put his hand on a boxy cylinder on his front bumper.
“This is the clutch. It works just like your car, this way,” he flipped the little lever, “it’s in neutral, it spins.
” He pulled on a hook and line came rolling out.
“Back this way,” he flicked the switch back, “it’s in drive. ” He tugged at the line and held fast.
“This is the controller,” he said, holding a handlebar-like box into the light. “It’s plugged into the winch and this toggle reels the line.” He pressed it and the line between us slowly rolled back into the cylinder. “The other way is out.”
“I don’t know how many times I can go up and down, so if we are going to get your car out, I need your help.”
“What?” In a start I realized he wasn’t just doing the thing where you tell someone what you are doing so they feel better. He wanted me to do it.