Without looking at her, I set my hand over hers. “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it.”
We travel the rest of the way home in silence. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I find the contact for my friend who owns a garage in town.
Me: 19:22- Gray SUV on WB shoulder of Highway 20 outside Pryor. Tow to your location and send bill to me. Owner at Allison’s B&B, let her know where it is and leave me out of it.
Ryder: 19:27- 10-4
5
NORA
“WHAT?” Iblink in confusion at the man standing in front of me wearing a blue button-up work shirt with black oil stains all over it, and a patch with ‘Ryder’ embroidered in pretty cursive.
His baseball hat is on backwards, short wisps of black hair curling out from under it, and his tall, lean frame shifts to one oily, boot-covered foot. He hesitates for half a second, his own confusion shining through his eyes. It was a simple question, he’s probably wondering if the English language is an issue for me.
“Can I get your keys so I can see what’s wrong with your car?” He says it just a little slower this time.
I’m so confused. This man just showed up out of nowhere claiming to have my car. After I was dropped off last night, I was so exhausted, I went right to bed after I got checked in. “But I haven’t called anyone to get it yet.”
He shrugs his shoulders and hangs his hands on his hips. “Someone did; it’s at my shop, and I need to take a look under the hood to see what’s wrong.”
We’re standing in the foyer of the cute little bed-and-breakfast Kinley and her cranky brother, Tucker, dropped me off at last night. It’s charming. It was obviously one of the larger, more affluent homes in town at one time, but the owner has done a good job converting it.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I’m not ready to just hand over my keys yet. This is crazy. “Who? Don’t you take note of who calls you to pick up a broken-down car? And how did you know I was here?”
He lifts his hands out in front of him and exaggerates a shoulder shrug, lifting his shoulders to his ears, his eroding patience sarcastically sends his eyebrows nearly to his hairline. “I didn’t take the call, I’m just doing what I was told, lady. You want me to take it back to the side of the road?”
The only people who know I’m here, who can connect me with my car I left on the side of the road, are the two who brought me here. Would they have called to have it picked up? I don’t know whether I should be concerned. My gut is telling me it was just a friendly gesture, but my brain wants to know who, what, when, why, and where.
The conditioned Nervous Nelly side of me needs to have all the dots connected ahead of time.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to accept a friendly gesture in the spirit it was given again. The part of me that used to give people the benefit of the doubt locked herself in a room with double locks a long time ago.
So… trust him, give this stranger my keys, and cross my fingers that I’m not making a mistake. Or stand here and refuse help while I look at the world through my jaded lens. The look of irritation on Ryder’s face says I have about three seconds before he leaves and takes my car back to the shoulder of the road.
“No.” I sigh as I look at him. “No, please don’t take it back. Let me get my keys.”
Walking back up the creaky wooden steps, which are covered with a long, pretty carpet runner with carpet rods bolted into place, I try to reason with the voice in my head that keeps telling me not to trust him. It pisses me off that it has become a habit to second-guess every person and every situation.
This guy doesn’t even know me. There’s no reason for him to be a threat to me, unless he plans to give me the shaft with the expense of the repairs. But that’s just the nature of most mechanics. That’s normal everyday life. If only normal, everyday life were all I have to worry about.
Stepping into my room, I pick up my bag to find my keys. The theme of the room is country-chic cornflower blue. The antique wooden bed is fluffy and comfy, and the cream-colored area rug on the dark hardwood under the bed matches the comforter. There are three large bay windows with a comfy bench that look out over the town on one side of the room.
In the daylight, the old, weathered buildings crowd together to line the main street, their charm and history obvious. The early morning sun makes everything look orange, and the dew lying on everything is sparkling in the lazy morning rays.
The poor guy that my conditioned, jumpy side has turned into the devil in disguise is waiting for me on the front wrap-around porch, his back to me and his hands in his pockets as he leans his shoulder against the front porch post.
When the screen door squeaks as it opens, he turns and looks at me, his hand out to take my keys. A large tow-truck is sitting in the gravel parking area with the large hooks and pulleys on the back. On the door it says ‘Ryder’s Towing’.
Holding my keys in my hand, I look back at him. “Are you the business owner?”
It’s small, but a huff of impatience lifts his chest, and he slides his hands in his pockets. “I am.”
“You just said you’re doing what you were told.”
He squeezes his temples and slides his fingers across his forehead while mumbling something about no good deed going unpunished. “Yeah, that’s right, lady. My names on the truck, but my wife takes the calls, and I do what she tells me to do.” With a deep breath, he meets my eyes again. “Look, I’ve gotthree cars in my garage, and another waiting to be towed this morning; are you gonna give me the keys, or aren’t ya?”
My car has been my lifeline for the last six months, and handing over the keys feels like giving away my parachute before jumping out of a plane. I remind myself that it’s not running anyway, my lifeline needs to be fixed to be of any use to me, and I hand over my keys.
