A girl steps out from behind a parked SUV, and darts into the road. She freezes, staring at my truck,at me. The water drops from my hold as two hands grip the steering wheel, and somewhere in a small part of my awareness I register the water soaking my passenger seat. My foot jams the brake, but there isn’t time. I wrench the wheel right to avoid her, and my front tires jump the curb, ramming right into a fire hydrant.
“Fuck,” I yell, throwing it in park.
The girl is still standing in the middle of the street. I jump out, leaving the door wide open in my haste.
I storm toward her. “Are you out of your mind?” I yell.
Her eyes swing up, meeting my anger. “Yes,” she whispers.
If she yelled back at me, my anger would be increasing. If she’d denied responsibility, I’d be livid, but it’s her eyes, aghast and disbelieving, that stop the white-hot anger I had when I catapulted from my truck.
I come closer until I’m two feet from her. She has blonde hair hidden beneath a baseball cap. Her cheeks are sallow, her eyes red-rimmed—evidence of previous tears.
“Are you okay?” I ask. She’s still standing in the middle of the street, though I guess now I’m in the street too.
“I’m alive,” she answers.
What a weird response. I’m not sure what to say now.
At once, the street fills with light. She blinks up at a shining streetlight, and it’s like the sudden addition of light has awakened her. Despite the ball cap hiding a third of her face, I can see how stunning she is.
She looks past me, to my truck with its front bumper wrapped around the yellow fire hydrant, and her open palm flies to her lips.
“I am so sorry,” she says, walking a wide arc around me and coming to a stop a few feet from the truck. “I…I…don’t know what to say. I’ll pay for the damage.” She shakes her head in disbelief and puts her hands on her hat.
“Don’t worry about it. My friend has an auto body shop. He’ll give me a good price.”
“No.” Her eyes are blue, like deep water, and they churn with a storm. For some reason I think of rough seas, tidal waves, salty spray smacking my face.
“No,” she repeats, stronger this time. “I’m taking responsibility for this. Iwillpay for the damage, even if your friend gives you a deal. It might take just a little time, though. I need to find a job.”
She purses her lips and looks around at the storefronts, like maybe aNow Hiringsign will magically appear in the window.
I’m aware of the irony. She needs a job. I need help.
I’m probably going to regret this. “Do you know how to use a screwdriver?” I ask.
Her eyes squint with her confusion. “Yes. Why?”
I point back at myself. “I’m hiring. I’m nice, only a little crazy, and I pay cash. Summertime is busy, and I need help.”
She eyes the logo on the side of my truck. Her eyebrows lift. “Vale Handyman Services?” Her tone is skeptical. “I’ll keep looking.”
My muscles tense. She’s one of those holier-than-thou girls home from college. She doesn’t want to ruin her manicure by actually working hard. The baseball cap threw me off, but I should’ve known better. She has the tight jean shorts, a signature part of the uniform. Her white tank top has something written in black Old English lettering, and it takes me a few seconds longer to read it, which is awkward because now it looks like I’m staring at her chest.
“Are you getting a good look?” She crosses her arms in front of herself.
“I was reading your shirt. I’m guessing that’s why you’re wearing a shirt that has words plastered on it. So people will read it.” My tone is snappy, matching hers. I’m not a Neanderthal. I know how to surreptitiously check out women.
She tips her head to the side and smirks. “And what does my shirt say?”
I have to bite my lip to suppress my laughter. “It says ‘Fuck Off.’”
“Uh huh,” she nods.
“Is that what you’re telling me to do?”
She gulps, watching me, and her lips twitch while she blinks a few times. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind. “Yes,” she says.
