My phone dings in my hand. It’s a text from John’s mother.
[5:27]Carla:Emily, I’ve just realized I told you the wrong dates for John’s trip. He got back last night. Thought you might want to know!
[5:27]Carla:Hope you are having a great day.
Just like that, the peaceful feeling vanishes, replaced by a fluttery anxiousness. John got back lastnight? That means he probably was at work today.
I glance at my phone. If I leave now, I might catch him at the shop.
Swallowing down an enormous swell of nerves, I stand and walk determinedly to my car. I give myself a stern pep talk as I drive. “Don’t be a chicken, Emily. Don’t be a wuss.”
Still, I have to wipe my prickling palms against my legs as I drive, and my heart pounds frantically the whole way. As I head up the road toward the shop, the front door swings open and someone steps out.
My pulse rate doubles.
It’s John.
Oh, man. I know it’s only been a few weeks, but I forgot how handsome he is. (And how dirty his work coveralls always are.)
He heads to his car, pulling his keys from his pocket. I slow down and put my blinker on to turn into the parking lot, then have to wait for three of the world’s slowest drivers to pass by. As I wait, the auto shop door swings open again, and a woman aroundmy age hurries out, shoving her phone in her purse as she runs. She approaches John’s car, says something to him with a smile, then walks around his car and gets into the passenger seat.
What?
I stare at them in icy horror until someone honks at me from behind. With numb hands, I force myself to pull into the parking lot. My heart is thudding loudly in my ears.
Whoisthat?
Could it be—
Has John moved onalready?
Moving on autopilot, I pull into a parking spot. John and the girl in his car haven’t noticed me. Dave’s old van is parked beside me, partially blocking me from view. Sick to my stomach, I put my car into reverse.
I guess that’s it, then.
No more John.
I reverse a few feet, then I slam on the brakes so hard they squeak a little.
Am Iinsane? There are a hundred different reasons John could be getting into a car with a girl. She could be a relative. She could be a friend. She could be a customer who needs a lift home. Am I really going to drive home and sob like a character in a rom-com without eventryingto confirm what I’m seeing?
I throw my car in park and jump out without turning it off, running across the parking lot like a maniac to try to catch them. They’re just pulling to the edge of the road, but John slows down as I approach. It’d be hard to miss seeing me, the girl waving her hands like a total idiot.
He stares at me incredulously for a moment (god, I missed thatstare), then reverses back a few feet into the parking lot. He says something to the girl beside him and then gets out of the car. I fold over my knees, breathing a little heavily. That was a way longer run than it looked.
“Are you okay?” John asks.
“Oh, yeah,” I wheeze. “Totally fine.” With effort, I force myself to stand up. “How’s it going?”
His eyebrows lift. “Good. This is Maya.” He gestures toward the girl in the car, who’s watching through the open window with an interested look on her face. “She’s the new receptionist.”
The new receptionist! I fight the urge to do a little dance, then sober just as quickly. John fell for the shop receptionist once already. I can’t let it happen again.
“Nice to meet you,” I say politely. Then, to John, “Can we talk for a second? Just—give us one second,” I tell Maya as I beckon John away from the car.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“What’sup?” I repeat, slightly indignantly. “Aren’t you shocked I’m here?”
