Chapter 12
I didn’t bother to punch my address into the car GPS because I thought I knew how to get home. I was wrong.
Anyway, all that to say it’s not an experience I’m familiar with. I have no idea how long I have before I run out of gas, but there’ll be a gas station around here, surely. These long, expansive roads must have a gas station on every corner.
At the light, I try to figure out how to display the closest gas station on my GPS screen. Even that is a challenge. And then, two long blocks later, I see it in the distance: the Shell sign. I mentally do a little jig.
I stop at another set of light. I only need to get across the intersection and I’m there.
I fiddle with the GPS again, and the car behind me honks.
The light have gone green, and I wave a hand and press the accelerator.
The car shudders forward, then stops. I wave a hand again and press the starter button but nothing happens.
The car is dead. I am only fifty feet away from the gas station, and I can’t get there.
You’d think that a luxury Mercedes-Benz would have extra gas somewhere for situations like this, and look, maybe it does, but I’ll never find it.
All I can do is try the starter button again and again, which does nothing whatsoever.
Someone knocks on my window. I can’t wind the window down so I open the door.
“Everything okay, ma’am? Do you need a hand? There’s a service station right there—” He points to the corner. “We can push you if you like.”
“Oh, thank you. Yes, please!” I say. Soon, three young, strong men are pushing my car out of the way and into the station’s parking lot. I thank them profusely, then lean to grab my purse from the passenger seat, and it’s not there.
I look behind me on the back seat. My purse isn’t there either.
Did I even bring my purse? I close my eyes, picturing the scene. I’d left my purse on the chair by the dresser in my bedroom. Then I saw the address in the appointment book, and I left. That’s it. I just left. I didn’t even take my purse.
“Are you all right?”
I open my eyes. A woman in sunglasses and a dark-blue Yankees baseball cap is leaning by my open door.
I wave a hand. “Oh, yes, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally. Thank you.”
She moves away, toward the store of the gas station. I get out and find the bathroom. I lock myself in a cubicle, sit on the toilet lid, and press the heels of my hands against my eyes. I don’t even have my phone. How am I going to get home? Do I leave the car here? Will someone steal it?
The bathroom door opens, followed by footsteps and the sound of another cubicle opening and closing. I flush the toilet.
At the sink, I wash my hands, then check my face closely. That swelling near my eye is still there. I pat it softly with my fingertips. I wish I’d brought some concealer. I can’t believe I left my makeup behind. My phone, my wallet, I can understand, but my makeup?
Behind me, another toilet flushes, and a cubicle opens.
“Oh! Hi. I saw you outside before. Is everything all right?”
I look at her in the mirror. It’s the woman with the Yankees cap, although she has removed her sunglasses.
I sigh. “Yes, No. But I’ll figure it out. Thank you, though. For asking.”
She smiles, turns on the tap in front of her. “Well. Sounds like you’re having the day I’m having,” she says.
“What kind of day are you having?”
“You really want to know?”
“Only if it’s bad,” I say.
She laughs. She turns to me, one fist on her waist. “I found out my fiancé is leaving me for someone else. He was having an affair for weeks. And you know why he finally told me?”
“He’s in love?”
Her face falls. She blushes furiously.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “My mother used to say I should keep my stupid mouth shut.”
“She was… She’s pregnant.”
“Oh.” I shake my head slowly. “I’m really sorry. You totally win. Your day is absolutely worse than mine.”
She laughs bitterly.
“And if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t know what’s wrong with your fiancé. Ex-fiancé, I mean. You’re very attractive. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“You look terrific,” I say.
“For thirty-seven?” She smiles as she washes her hands.
“For any age. Your figure is amazing, your skin is like a peach, you clearly look after yourself…” I nod at her hands. “You’ve got really nice hands. People say that’s the tell, did you know that? The hands. They get old before any other part of your body if you don’t look after them. Oh! Wow.”
“What?”
“Is the ring from him?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” She stares at the engagement ring on her finger. “I forgot I was wearing it.”
“May I?” I take her hand and study the ring. “I love a square diamond. Is it real?”
She laughs. “I’d say so. He paid twenty-five thousand dollars for it.”
“Wow,” I say again. “Platinum then. I’m sorry for your loss. Will you keep it?”
She takes it off and puts it in her little belt bag, then gives a little shrug. “Do you think I should?”
“Absolutely. A gift is a gift. I mean, it’s not like they’d give us our virginity back, is it? Small price to pay for treating a woman’s sacred rite of passage with such careless abandon, when you think about it.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Were you a virgin?” I ask.
She blinks a few times. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Me neither. Anyway, keep it, absolutely. You could get at least fifteen thousand dollars for it if you pawned it.” I shake my head. “And I have to say, you look great for someone who’s just had a terrible day. If that was me, I’d be a total mess right now.”
“I’m good at keeping things bottled up.”
“Good for you. You get less wrinkles that way.”
She laughs and readjusts her cap in the mirror. “Thank you. I needed that.” She crumples the paper towel and throws it in the trash. “What about you? I saw your car stalled. Did you call the AAA? They’re on their way?”
“I left my purse at home. I have no phone and no wallet and no cash, can you believe it? I think I’ll have to hitchhike.”
“Seriously? You have no money to get home?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sigh. “I always get myself into these stupid situations.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I’ll figure something out.”
She digs into her purse and pulls out a fifty. “Here.”
I stare at the note. “What for?”
She grabs my hand and presses the money into my palm. “You shouldn’t have to hitchhike home. That’s ridiculous and dangerous. You could get picked up by a serial killer.”
I laugh. “Imagine that! A serial killer getting picked up by a—”
She tilts her head.
“I mean, someone like me, getting picked up by a serial killer! Or anyone getting picked up by a serial killer, really. Imagine that!”
She smiles, but with the air of someone who didn’t get the joke and is not that interested in finding out.
I stare at the note. “You really mean to give me fifty dollars?”
“Of course. Us girls have to stick together, right?”
“I’m not going to say no, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“There’s no need,” she says.
“No, I insist. I can’t accept it if I can’t pay it back. Tell me your number. I’ll remember it.”
“I tell you what…” She pulls out her phone. “Oh God. I didn’t realize the time. I’m running late. What’s your number? I’ll text you mine.”
I reel it off. She shoves the phone in her belt bag and extends her hand. “I’m Erin.”
“Jodie.”
“Sorry, I have to run,” she says, opening the door.
“No problem. Don’t forget to text me your number,” I say.
“I will. Take care.”