CHAPTER 4
Not going to lie, last night I drove the BMW rental car hard and only stopped when I needed gas.
And fine, I was also exhausted. It was probably the early morning wake-up call, jumping out of an airplane and parachuting onto an island, playing four-man flag football for several hours, and then getting a smoothie dumped on me, but my body ached and my eyes were heavy.
After a pit stop to use the facilities, I returned to the parking lot and didn’t even make it to the gas pump before I passed out cold.
Not usually like me. Working (and fine, playing) as hard as I do, I prefer to recover (and overnight) in luxury accommodations.
My body literally creaks as I peel myself out of the driver’s seat.
I’ll text Angela later and have her book me a massage.
Here I am, waking at dawn in a parking lot somewhere south of Charleston. I check the GPS. Looks like I barely made it into Florida last night. After several more hours at a high rate of speed, I’ll reluctantly reach my destination.
But first, coffee.
The air is dry and relatively cool this time of year and I take a deep breath. Diesel and the scent of sausage fill my nose and my stomach rumbles with hunger.
After using the bathroom, I peruse the breakfast selection. Not going to lie, it smells good, but to stay in top form, I usually avoid roadside food—and muffins. Yesterday was an exception.
There are some hard-boiled eggs, but those seem risky. The brown bananas look like they’d do better to use in a prank to make someone slip on the peel than provide a satisfying breakfast.
I double back when I hear rustling from a palm tree display covered in Christmas decorations.
Must be leftover from the recent holidays.
This place boasts a wild animal as its mascot, but if there is one in here, I’ll report them to the board of health.
I peer in the direction of the palm, and the fronds ripple again.
My brow furrows and I consider that because I’m tired and famished, maybe I’m imagining things.
Just then, a kid’s boogie board shifts to the left and bumps into a man with a full load of coffee beverages on a tray, along with a bag of doughnuts, reminding me of the run-in at the Smoothery yesterday.
“The parents of that kid should tell them to be careful, otherwise, someone is going to be wearing their breakfast,” I mutter.
And now I’m talking to myself. I could also blame my destination for causing me to be off my game. Time to focus. I need hydration, nourishment, and caffeine.
I grab water from the cooler case and a breakfast taco from the pre-made section.
Thankfully, it’s warm. When I fix my coffee, I sense someone in my proximity, likely waiting for me to pop the lid on the cup so they can take their turn.
I shift to the side to make room when out of the corner of my eye, someone streaks by.
I imagine it’s a kid belonging to a family on their way to the amusement parks and no sooner did they get on the road was the kid whining and asking, Are we there yet?
Can’t say I’ll ever have that kid because I don’t plan to have a family. I’ve dated a bit, but can’t give a woman the time they require.
As for love, I don’t touch the stuff. Too messy. Too many demands. Too much risk. Too much like getting doused with a strawberry shortcake smoothie.
I’ll drop millions on a high-return investment, but I’m not going to bank any of my funds on romance. I’m committed to my job. Not relationships. I’m building something big and I can’t get distracted.
Not by kids goofing around in a store at six am, not by my growling stomach while I wait in line to pay, and not by the woman with the long brown hair streaked blonde by the sun.
I do a double-take.
Standing at the neighboring checkout counter, Strawberry Shortcake squishes up her face and gives me a tight little wave.
She wears the same short coveralls as yesterday with a tank top underneath. The faintest odor of strawberries wafts my way. Paint covers her sneakers and a fleck is still on her cheek.
Nope. Not going to acknowledge her. I’ll pretend I’ve never seen her in my life and continue on my merry way.
I pay for my items and then march outside, blinders on.
With my hand on the bar of the door, I’m almost out of here when another, smaller hand overlaps mine.
I don’t dare look. But once again, I experience an internal pause.
My breath presses deeply into my lungs and expands throughout my body, making me feel light, free.
It’s busy and loud in here, so I thrust the door open without looking back because, regrettably, I have a place to be and can’t afford to waste time.
Fully intending to bolt out of this parking lot, I remember the car needs gas.
After guzzling some water and taking a much-needed sip of coffee, I maneuver to the line of cars waiting.
There are three pumps per lane and an old truck idles in front of me.
I hate waiting, but this gives me a chance to chow down on the taco.
I wish I’d grabbed two, but I’m not going back in there in case Strawberry Shortcake also decided she needs seconds—or got it in her mind to soak someone in smoothie juice.
My mind races with every objection, every reason I should turn back, but I’m locked in this line with cars in front of me, behind the BMW, and waiting for the pumps parallel to mine. There’s a narrow passage, but a person with a tow-behind camper blocks the exit.
Yesterday started with a bang, in a good way, with me and the guys blasting out of the plane and toward the earth, playing football, and then catching up like old times over burgers for lunch.
Now, I’m heading to the place I dread most, and hoping that Strawberry Shortcake isn’t going to materialize and spray gasoline all over my clean shirt—because, unlike her, I changed my clothing since yesterday.
As I creep ahead in line, I recall the interaction at the boutique in Charleston. I wonder if perhaps she hit hard times and is living in her vehicle, driving from town to town, and hoping for handouts.
No, that can’t be true because she seemed to know the women at the Smoothery.
But she didn’t pay for the smoothie or muffin.
However, she was wearing gold earrings.
But her clothing was covered in paint.
Maybe she’s a painter or that’s her style.
But she was wearing those same garments again.
However, she bought a breakfast taco, so she can’t be out of cash.
Why am I analyzing this?
I finally reach the gas pump and get out of the car, leaving my incessant thoughts behind. While the tank fills, I grab the squeegee to clean the windshield. I could’ve flown to Coco Key, but then I’d still need a car and an escape hatch. No way am I getting stuck there.
However, when I get back in the BMW, I am stuck. The truck in front of me angles in such a way that they’re blocking both the way forward and the center lane between pumps.
I grumble. The guy probably ran into someone he knows and is having a friendly morning chat. I tell myself to be patient and wait a full sixty seconds before tapping lightly on the horn.
“This isn’t New York or LA, but I have places to go, people.”
When the truck still doesn’t move, I get out of the car and march over, ready to give the guy a piece of my mind, when I see that the driver is a girl. Rather, a woman with brown hair and overalls.
Eyes squished shut as if wishing away the situation, she repeatedly turns the key in the ignition, but it just ticks.
Letting out a defeated sigh, she turns to me and says, “Don’t worry.
I got this. Just have to get the battery replaced.
But give it a minute. Chances are it’ll start up.
Always does. I hope,” she mutters, then she stutters, “Mr. Muffin?”
“Mr. What?” I ask. “Never mind. Pop the hood.”
My oldest brother knows his way around cars better than me, but I’m no slouch at this either. Chip made sure we could change a tire and assess and fix most simple automobile issues.
A disturbing hissing sound comes from the vehicle, along with some steam where there shouldn’t be any. The problem is instantly obvious. “You said you need to replace the battery. But if you do manage to get your truck started, you’re not going far.”
Strawberry Shortcake opens her mouth as if to defend her old pickup.
Not interested in any nonsense this morning, I utter one word, well, I shout it over the cacophony of cars behind us. “Coolant.”
“Cool it? I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Coolant,” I repeat over the honking horns and peppy country song playing over the gas station’s speakers.
“It’s not hot out, but I’ll gladly get you something cold to drink,” Strawberry Shortcake calls. “Remember, I owe you.”
Letting out a grumble, I round to the driver’s side at the same time she comes around the corner. True to form, we bump into each other.
“Can this not happen?” I mutter.
Holding her hands up like she’s innocent, she says, “What’s happening? Nothing is happening. My hands are where you can see ‘em, and I don’t have any beverages on my person. Nothing hot and nothing cold.”
“You need coolant.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I—forget it.” I point to a pyramid of jugs, filled with fluids, including antifreeze.
If I had any sense, I’d return to the BMW and hide until a tow truck shows up, but that also means I’ll have more time to talk myself out of driving south. That’ll result in an angry Magnus and no one wants the US Navy showing up at their door.
Instead, I fill the truck while she goes inside to pay.
At least, I hope that’s what she’s doing and not trying to sweet-talk the clerk into donating the bottle because, by the state of her truck, it looks like she’s living in it.
Boxes and bins fill the bed and several empty paint jugs, food wrappers, cups, bottles, and an assortment of random items litter the interior.
When she returns, I can’t help but watch the way she walks, the sway of her hips, and the lift of her shoulders. Trying to figure the woman out, she seems hapless, but she carries herself with confidence and is undeniably pretty, in a perky kind of way.
I close the truck’s hood and pat it. “It’s full. Hang onto the rest in case you need it.”
As I pass the bottle to her, our hands brush a third time. No, this is the fourth.
Why am I keeping track?
Time creeps to a standstill for a second and a half this time. I can feel the breath moving through my body. Not just in my lungs, but through my extremities—fingers and toes. Everywhere.
“Thanks for your help. I hadn’t even sipped my coffee yet and already I caused trouble. I’m usually low maintenance.”
“I’d argue quite the opposite is true.”
Despite her claim not to have consumed any caffeine, she seems jittery. “No, really. I typically spend eight hours a day—”
A car horn blares and a stream of vehicles formed behind the BMW during this ordeal.
She gets in the truck and closes the door. Through the window, she says, “I owe you again.”
With a dread-induced scowl, I say, “No. Please no. I don’t want to ever see you again. Not even if you offer to buy me a muffin, a breakfast taco, or an island.”
She laughs like I’m joking. “Are you following me? Because I’m dangerous with jugs of paint.”
I have no idea what that means, but I say, “And smoothies.”
“Drive safely.”
“Don’t crash into anyone.”
But I don’t think she hears me because I also get into my car.
The GPS says I’ll get to Coco Key in eight hours. Good thing this BMW goes fast because I plan to shave some minutes off the ETA. The thing is, I don’t want to spare another second thinking about how Strawberry Shortcake made my pulse stop and what that could mean.
Not that I’ll ever see her again.
Nope. I’m good at leaving. It’s what I do.
Except now. I’m returning to a place I pledged never to revisit. I just hope the past stays dead and buried because that’s not something I want to dredge up.