He hesitates a moment longer, then nods and starts walking back to his truck. I wait until he’s pulling away—and after he’s taken one last look back at Heather—before I walk over to take a look at her engine.
“That guy was hitting on you.” The words come out as more of a grumble, mostly under my breath, but still loud enough for her to hear.
“What?” She sounds legitimately surprised. “No, he wasn’t. He was just being nice.”
I raise up to look over the top of her hood at her. “Trust me, he was hitting on you.”
“Well, if he was, it’s kind of nice to be noticed like that. I’ve felt practically invisible for so long that I guess I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be seen as a woman.”
My stomach clenches, and I want to tell her that I hope she never has to feel that way again. She isn’t invisible to me.
Just the opposite, in fact. It’s impossible to look at her without seeing the quiet strength and determination in the way she carries herself. Or the way she lights up when she talks about April or the work she does at New Horizons, or even the way she talks about elephants, for Christ’s sake.
She’s a force of nature, just like her daughter. A hurricane. And just like I said before, not all hurricanes are bad and destructive. Some of them are so full of life and energy that they change everything in their path.
“That guy was right about the radiator,” I say, forcing myself to concentrate on the task at hand. “The hose is shot. This car isn’t going anywhere today.”
I pull out my phone and call for a tow truck. While we wait, I notice that Heather keeps rubbing her arms. I’m wearing a light jacket and have been too focused on making arrangements for her car to pay much attention to the cool afternoon air.
Without thinking, I shrug out of my jacket and drape it around her shoulders.
She immediately pulls it tighter around herself and takes a step closer to me. “Thank you. I didn’t really dress for being stuck on the side of the road.”
The sight of her wearing my jacket stirs that possessive feeling back to life inside me. It’s way too big for her, of course, and makes her look almost comically small, with the arms falling several inches down past her hands.
Still, there’s something that feels right about my jacket keeping her warm. That’s how it should be.
A half hour later, we watch the tow truck carry her car away.
“Let’s get out of here.” I nod toward my truck. “What time do you need to pick up April from school?”
She looks at the time on her phone. “In about twenty minutes. I should just call a cab from here.”
“What? No. I’ll take you to pick her up. We’ll make it just in time.”
I’m glad she doesn’t argue, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting her call a cab when I have absolutely nothing better to do. I get that she doesn’t want to inconvenience me or whatever, but there’s a limit. And even the thought of her waiting on the side of this damn road for another second is way beyond that limit for me.
Once we’re both buckled in, she rests her hand on my thigh as I’m putting the truck in gear. It’s meant to be a gesture of gratitude, I’m sure—casual and friendly, nothing more than that.
But the warmth of her palm through my jeans sends a jolt of heat straight up my leg. It’s so intense that I have to concentrate to keep from accidentally jerking away out of pure reflex.
“Thank you,” she says. “For dropping everything to come and get me. I know you weren’t supposed to be finished with practice for at least another hour or two.”
I clear my throat and force myself to focus on the road instead of the lingering warmth of her hand on my leg. “It’s, uh, not a problem.”
She keeps her hand there for another minute before pulling it back to her lap, and I immediately miss the contact.
“So how did the meeting go?” I ask as we merge into traffic. “With April’s teacher?”
Heather sighs, but there isn’t a hint of frustration. Just pure exhaustion. “It went fine, I guess. April is doing well academically, but she’s still having trouble making friends. They want to try a few things, like a buddy program, an after-school reading club, and maybe some sessions with the school counselor.”
“It sounds like they’re at least making an effort and trying to be supportive.”
“They are. They were actually very nice. Very understanding.” She’s quiet for a moment as she stares out the passenger window. “It’s just that I keep wondering if this is my fault somehow. If I’d been able to give her a more stable childhood, maybe she’d be better at making friends now.”
The self-doubt in her voice makes my heart hurt. I want to make things better—want to make everything better for her—but this isn’t one of those problems I can make go away with a phone call and a check.
The best I can do for now is to reassure her. I don’t have all the answers, but I can at least tell her what I know is true.
