Chapter 2
“Ma’am. We have no more rental cars. We just gave the last one to him.” Brayden, the rental car associate, tells me and points to a dark, brooding figure bundled up in a massive, all consuming, black trench coat sitting in the corner of the waiting area. “I can’t do anything. Take it up with him.”
With a huff, I breathe in and out. I think about giving up on this deranged plan, but I made myself a promise. This is just a small hurdle in the grand scheme of things. I can make this work. I’ve been through worse—I can do this.
I hustle my way over to where the man is sitting, my coat swishing while I walk, I pull down my hat and take my gloves off. I clasp my hands together and clear my throat to begin my speech.
“Hello. My name is Madeline. I really need this rental car.” I speak almost robotically, as if I have rehearsed this a thousand times and am not pulling this straight out of my ass.
I’m not sure he notices me. “You see, I don’t have a car.
And I really, really need to get to Kennebunkport by tonight to see this band playing there. ”
“You can’t take the bus?” The figure mutters, without looking up from his cellphone. His face is covered by his scarf except for his dark brown eyes that are illuminated by the white-blue light of his phone screen. “Or an Uber?”
“No,” I say. “I really need this van. Please.” I’m practically begging this stranger for the keys to the vehicle he just paid for. I throw out the wildest bribe I can think of. “I’ll pay you double what you paid for the car.”
He unwraps his scarf and looks up at me. It’s him. That miserable bastard. It’s Dean from the pharmacy.
This is just lovely. I think I’ll throw up all over his shoes.
I grip the straps of my tote bag tighter, itching to root through it for something to calm my churning stomach.
“Dean from the pharmacy?” I ask.
“Madeline?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
“Why do you need to be in Kennebunkport? Are you not too busy having a heart attack?” His voice is monotone and bored, and he looks like I just asked him what the weather was, and not if I could steal his rental van out from underneath him. He looks back at his cellphone.
Well, that’s just mean.
“No, asshole, I need the rental van.”
“Why can’t you take the bus?” It’s a genuine suggestion from him, but I’m perturbed at the thought of riding a bus with thirty coughing, sniffling people in the middle of winter.
“Why do you think so?” I retort, as if my hypochondriasis was not the obvious answer.
“But you’ll go to a jazz club?” He raises an eyebrow, skeptical of my plan. I grimace because he has a point. Illness related anxiety never claimed to be rational—the jazz club was different. It was for Andy.
“Will you take me?”
“I will if you stop coming to the pharmacy.”
“Hell no.” I declined his suggestion immediately. I needed to pick up my pills somewhere. But in reality, I would give this man the coat off my back if it meant I could get to Kennebunkport in time. “I won’t come to the pharmacy every day. Not entirely.”
He ponders my bargain for a moment before he stands up, eyebrows knit tightly. “Let’s go.”
I follow him to the back parking lot, lugging my suitcase through the wet, snowy slush, where there’s a singular light blue minivan waiting. He double clicks the keyfob, and the car roars to life. I pull open the door to the right back seat.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks, standing by the driver's side door. “Get in the front seat, you weirdo. I’m not a taxi driver.” He’s already getting annoyed with me.
“Give me a second.” I haul my suitcase into the back, and get into the front seat. I regret packing so many things, but lord knows I’ll need them all at some point.
“Why are you going to Kennebunkport at 9:30 on a Sunday night? What jazz band is so important?” he asks, the irritation in his voice revving up.
“You can at least tell me if I’m going to take you there.
” He reverses smoothly out of the parking lot even in the sleet and turns the corner.
His driving is smooth and relaxed, the complete opposite of the hostile energy he’s radiating.
“Before he died, my husband was a musician,” I tell him matter-of-factly.
I’ve said the first part a thousand times.
The second part, I’m not so sure. I can’t believe I’m explaining this to anyone, let alone Dean from the pharmacy.
“He played at this inn five years ago. The Waverly Inn. The band that opened for him is playing tonight. He wanted me to see them one day.”
“So, you’re going now?” Dean says. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, and he merges competently onto the highway on ramp.
“Yes. I just worked up the nerve about an hour ago.” It’s starting to flurry out.
Small snowflakes land gently on the window.
Dean turns the wipers on right away. He’s safe.
Something about it strikes me as spectacular.
I shake my head— I really need to get out more often if safe driving impresses me.
“I’m going to get a rental car in Kennebunkport and drive to all the places Andy played…
before…” I don’t know why I’m giving a near stranger so much information, but I can’t keep it from spilling out of me.
The more I talk, the less anxious I feel.
“You’re not going to find a rental car in Kennebunkport at this hour,” Dean mutters.
“Then I’ll walk.” I feel so absolutely batshit, but I’m determined. I know I won’t walk and will end up paying an arm and a leg for a taxi or Uber but what does he care anyway?
“No, you won’t,” He says confidently, suddenly.
“I won’t?” My eyes are as wide as billiard balls.
“I’ll…I’ll drive you, I guess,” Dean bristles. “I don’t want to be the last person to see you before you go missing or dead in a ditch, and the police won’t leave me alone because they think I did it.”
“No, you won’t,” I disagree. This is a week-long trip.” I’m imagining I actually stick with my plan that’s taped together with anti-anxiety medication and off-brand adhesive bandages—Dean tagging along like an unwanted middle school dance chaperone.
“Where’s your next stop?”
“Portland.”
“Then I’ll just drive you to Portland after the concert, where you can actually get a rental car. I’m not letting you walk to Portland.” Dean shakes his head.
“You let me walk home earlier,” I remind him.
“You live across the street from the pharmacy.”
“Where are you even going anyway?” I ask, poking his massive, puffy sleeve. His pupils grow by tenfold, pissed that I dare touch him.
“That’s none of your business. You’ve got a screw loose.”
I don’t know how he can be so aloof in this situation, but despite his unhinged comment from earlier, what he’s doing for me now is the kindest thing anyone's done for me in a long time.
We ride in silence for what feels like an hour, but in reality, it is only fifteen minutes to the nearest gas station. I keep my tote bag that’s stuffed to the brim in my lap. Quickly, I take my debit card out of my wallet, and hand it to Dean who promptly gets out of the minivan to pump gas.
Twisting my head and shoulders around, I get a good look at him while he’s not paying attention.
He’s tall. It’s difficult to tell under his perpetual scowl and large coat, but he’s handsome.
White snowflakes catch in his dark hair, and something feral in me wants to open the window, reach out, and brush them away.
“What are you staring at?” He raps on the window. Busted.
Does he have eyes on the back of his head? Half a second ago he was facing the gas pump. Dean climbs back into the minivan. He fits so well in the seat, commanding the wheel, and it’s not at all like a frazzled suburban soccer mom vibe.
“Stop staring at me and put on your seatbelt,” He instructs, much more like a suburban soccer mom. I instinctively click it.
The car revs to life once more, and as Dean makes a left turn out of the parking lot, he blurts out something I wasn’t expecting. “I’m sorry about Andy. I read about him online.”
“It’s fine,” I say just as suddenly, looking out the opposite window. Snow has started to collect on the ground, and the highway is slick. “I’m handling it.”
“You’re really a hypochondriac, right?” He does not believe I’m handling it, even for a second by the way he clicks his tongue on his teeth.
It’s my turn to blurt out a laugh. “How’d you guess?”
“I think the incident in the pharmacy gave it away. And there’s that post-it note warning me that you come in from 2:15 to 2:30 every weekday afternoon. And Craig gave me a fifteen minute long speech about you.”
I gulp. “Well, I’m glad you know my schedule.” I dig around in my tote bag for the stack of letters I grabbed from the basement, looking for the one with a Waverly Inn takeout menu stapled to the front.
“You know, there’s medications that can help,” Dean says.
“Don’t you know my prescriptions? Don’t you fill them?” I retort. I don’t need to be upsold on medication.
“There’s others.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I’m a pharmacist clinician. I can recommend something to you. To help.”
“I’m fine. Talk to my doctor if you’re so concerned.
” I take a deep breath and try to ignore the niggling feeling in my gut that makes me feel like I might throw up.
The realization I’m going on a last minute road trip with a practical stranger in the dark is hitting me harder and faster than a shot of top-shelf tequila.
Even though it’s dark and I can barely see in the car, I know the feel of the cap by heart. I immediately find the chewable pepto bismol tablets and pop two like they’re candy. “Just drop me off when we get there. You can wait in the car.”
“If that’s what you want,” Dean says, taking the exit with ease.
“It’s what I want.”