Aubrey shudders lightly, as if she’s remembering with me. “It’s OK. It’s common sense. Anyway, I brought the vitamin E oil. She’s been trying to scratchit.”
I open my mouth, but Aubrey holds up a hand. “I know, Doctor Cowboy. Don’t let her scratch it.” She laughs and settles back into her seat. I shake myhead.
“Tell me more about the day I went to the brunch with your mom. I just can’t picture my dad hanging out with your dad.” She makes a sound like a disbelievingexhale.
“It was…good. Interesting.” I tap my fingers on the wheel, thinking of the day my dad and I met John forlunch.
“You said that already.” Aubrey remindsme.
“That’s about all there is to it. Your dad was quiet. My dad attempted to talk about sports. Your dad made no attempt to talk about sports. I remembered they both like animals, even though one of them prefers to hunt them, and finally they had something to talkabout.”
Aubrey sighs. “They could not be moredifferent.”
I nod, but inside I know the truth. Those two men are more alike than anybodyknows.
“Your mom and Lauren aren’t at odds, by the way.” She says it off-handedly while she stares out herwindow.
“No?” The last time I saw Lauren she was angry. Hurt. And she had a right to be. Everything she knew was upended, just like it was for me. Of course, it was worse for me because it wasaboutme. “Well, good.” I sneak a quick glance at Aubrey. Her head’s tipped back while sheyawns.
“Go to sleep,” I tellher.
“I just might,” she says, yawning again, but bigger thistime.
She uses the remainder of the drive to take a nap. Every once in a while, I peek at her from the corner of my eye. Her lips are parted, her arms crossed at herwaist.
Five years ago, I was immediately attracted to her. Physically, yes, but also mentally. She was smart. The pain in me reached out to the pain in her. That night she was like a mirror, reflecting exactly what I was feeling on theinside.
Maybe it’s time to tell her my ugly truth. The real reason I was at the bar thatnight.
The problem is that my ugly truth does not belong to onlyme.
I can’t be totally honest with Aubrey until I get the green light fromher.
It’spossible this is the cutest town I’ve ever been to. Although that might not be saying much. I’m not exactly well-traveled. My dad likes to stick to the surroundinggeography.
Sugar Creek, Arizona. Population… I don’t know. Not much, I’m guessing, based on the quaint main street. There are off-shoots, streets that lead away and have some businesses on them. The businesses look like homes, though. We haven’t stepped from the truck yet, but I’m certain there’s an unhurried pace in this town. What could there possibly be to rush to? Orfrom?
Isaac props a piece of paper on the steering wheel. There are only four directions on it, and he’s glanced down at it so many times he probably has it memorized. The directions scrawled on paper is old-school, but that’s because the place we’re going to doesn’t have anaddress.
Yep, that’s right.The Lost Place.Literally. That’s the name of the cabin. It has a name, but not anaddress.
I balked when Isaac told me.How will help get to us if we don’t have an address togive?
Are you planning on needing help?Isaacasked.
That’s when I told him what an emergency is, as defined by my profession.A state of need for help or relief, created by an unexpected event, requiring immediateaction.
Isaac laughed and reminded me heisan emergencyresponder.
I could've kept going and told him about all the emergencies he is not the best fit for responding to. Instead, I shut my mouth. Because he was excited. Because he was smiling, and his eyes were smiling too. And in three days, it’s very unlikely that anything could gowrong.
Now that I see the little town, I feel better. It looks like something from a pop-up book, a small expanse of brick buildings and sidewalks, storefronts with hand-painted signs. No traces of the desert we’ve left behind. It’s all pine and greenleaves.
I glance at the paper on the steering wheel and look up just in time to spot the final direction. “There’s the bakery she mentioned.” I point as we come upon it. Mrs. Iams, the owner of the cabin, said we’d know where to turn once we saw the bakery. I peer closer at the quaint store window. It’s painted with a coffee cup, steam rising from it, and a blueberrymuffin.
Isaac follows the direction of my finger. “Mrs. Iams said we have to go there. And to get there early, because apparently these blueberry muffins are to die for, and they sell out everyday.”
I don’t tell him how much I hate blueberry muffins. No need to ruin themood.
