There's nothing around for miles. I'm between Brighton and Sierra Grande, in a sort of no-man’s-land. Mountains tower on either side of me, and I'm down at the bottom of them. No cell service.
I pop the hood and get out, walking to the front of my car. I lift the hood, scratch the back of my head, and stare at the complicated machine in front of me.
I don't know shit about engines.
I reach for my phone to search the internet for a reason a car would stop mid-drive, then remember I don't have service. My hands run through my hair, fisting in my frustration.
How many miles is it to Sierra Grande? Eleven or so? Same to Brighton. I'm equidistant, stuck between two towns. It's disarming how ill-equipped I am to deal with this situation.
I'd bet a hundred bucks Jessie knows her way around a car engine.
Jessie, with her honey hair and beautiful face. Her high cheekbones and her perpetual readiness, like any challenge that comes her way will be met with force. There's something about that I find undeniably attractive.
I can't spend any more time thinking about Jessie. I have to get myself out of this situation. Which means I'll be walking back to Sierra Grande. I'm not going to even calculate how long that's going to take. Knowing isn't going to change anything.
I get back in my car, grab my water bottle and double-check I have my wallet and currently useless phone. Time to walk.
I'm two miles in, my mind one-hundred-percent on Jessie now that I have nothing but time on my hands, when a late model truck comes sputtering down the road. There isn't much about the driver I can see from here, except the hair. I'd recognize that bottle-dyed red color anywhere.
"Sawyer," Greta calls, rolling to a stop. She presses a forearm to the base of the open window and leans out. "What are you doing out here?"
"Going for a stroll," I answer, and Greta laughs her thick, hearty guffaw.
"More like that fancy car of yours couldn't handle the back road.”
I smile at her. Despite having unforeseen car trouble, Greta is a person who always makes me grin. She's one of the first people I met when I showed up in town, and I see her at least once a week for the delivery of her blueberry muffins.
I nod. "You might be right about that, Greta."
"Tell you what," she says, glancing east, "I'm on my way to Lady J bakery right now. Her delivery truck broke down yesterday and it's still in the shop. Help me load up all those muffins and I'll give you a ride back to Sierra Grande."
"Done," I answer, walking around and climbing in.
We make small talk as we go, and Greta smirks at myfancy caron the side of the road when we pass it.
“It doesn't shock me you like fine things.” She winks at me. “Your mom was always dressed up and elegant. Pretty nails, hair curled.’’ She motions to the ends of her hair with a flattened palm when she says this.
It’s hard to focus on what she’s saying now, though, because all I can think about is my mom. And the pink nail polish she always wore, and the curling iron lying unplugged on her bathroom counter.
I had no idea these memories existed in my brain, and now they’re here and they feel real enough to touch. Like I could walk into what is now Jo and Wyatt’s bedroom at Wildflower and see my mom’s makeup bag on the counter, her floral-printed robe hanging on the wall hook.
“You knew my mom?” I ask Greta, doing everything in my power to conceal my shattered heart.
She shrugs. “As much as a person can know an acquaintance. I had only opened up shop a couple years before you and your family arrived. Your mother had a thing for my lemon scones. But she was the only person who bought them, and I stopped making them after—” Greta’s apologetic gaze locks on me. “Listen to me, going on and on. You’d probably appreciate some peace and quiet.”
“It’s okay, Greta. You don’t have to avoid talking about her.” I say it offhandedly, like it’s not a big deal, but my hands are shaking. The micro movements aren’t from pain, though. It’sexcitingto talk about her. To hear about her. For so long she has been a figment, and these anecdotes make her real.
But Greta must think I’m only placating her, because she changes the subject and tells me about emigrating to the United States when she was fourteen. She says she missed the Ukraine at first, but then met a man when she was just seventeen, and married him two years later. "I didn't love him at first," she admits. "But over time, love grew. There are rarely right answers." Her shrug tells me how much she believes these words. "Sometimes, there are just best fit answers. And they will have to do."
I smile at her. She says, “Do you like lemon flavor, Sawyer?”
I nod.
She pats my thigh motherly. “Good. Because I was thinking maybe I should put lemon scones back on my menu.”
It's in this precise moment I realize how much the town of Sierra Grande is beginning to feel like home again.
Greta droppedme off at the body shop, and I have a forty-five minute wait until the tow truck arrives with my car. To pass the time, I return my friend Sebastian's phone call.
