I just nod, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my hand still pressed flat against the dashboard like it’s the only thing keeping me from flying through the glass. Behind us, the Gonzalez family’s SUV pulls to a stop, hazard lights flashing orange through the rain.
Dominic unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to face me fully, his eyes scanning my face, my hands, like he’s checking for damage. “Brooke. Are you sure you’re okay?”
The intensity in his gaze makes my heart pound in a way that has nothing to do with the near-death experience. Which is absurd, because we almost just died, but apparently my body hasn’t gotten that memo.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out steady, which surprises me. “I just wasn’t expecting to almost die today is all. Really puts a damper on the road trip vibes. I was just starting to enjoy myself.”
He laughs, sounding relieved, and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s like the universe doesn’t want us to make it to Mexico City or to the fight.”
“At this point I’m starting to take it personally.” I press my hand to my chest, feeling my heart rate finally start to slow from its frantic galloping. “Like the universe saw our itinerary and decided to treat it as a personal challenge. Flight canceled? Check. Car rental disaster? Check. Lightning strike? Why not, let’s really commit to this.”
Behind us, a car door slams and we both glance in the rearview mirror to see Miguel already out of his SUV, pulling on a jacket as he jogs toward us through the rain, his headlights still casting long beams through the downpour.
“Wait here,” Dominic says, already reaching for the door handle. “No point in both of us getting soaked.”
Before I can respond he’s out of the car and jogging toward Miguel, the two of them meeting in front of the fallen tree. I watch through the rain-streaked windshield as they confer. Dominic’s Spanish is terrible, but between his spattering of words and elaborate gestures, and Miguel’s bits of English and patient repetition, they seem to be communicating just fine. Then Miguel holds up a finger, jogs back to his SUV, and opens the trunk.
He pulls out a chainsaw.
I actually laugh out loud, because my dad used to keep one in his truck for exactly this reason. Growing up in Washington meant winter windstorms and downed trees blocking neighborhood roads at least once a year, maybe more.
Dad always said every car should have a safety kit, jumper cables, and a chainsaw for whatever nature decided to throw in your path. I should text him this story when we get service again, he’d absolutely love it. Though maybe I’ll wait until I’m actuallysafe and sound in Mexico City, I think guiltily. No need to give my parents a heart attack.
Miguel fires up the chainsaw, the sound cutting through the rain even from inside the car, and gets to work on the thickest part of the trunk while Dominic starts hauling branches off the road. The rain is still coming down hard, and his gray t-shirt is clinging to the muscles in his back and shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
God,his arms. The way the muscles move under his skin when he lifts, the way the wet cotton stretches across his chest when he turns. He reaches for a piece of debris that has to weigh fifty pounds and swings it over the guardrail like it’s a paperback book, rain streaming down his face, jaw set with effort, and I remember very clearly how easily those arms lifted me onto the kitchen counter in my apartment. How he stepped between my legs and hooked his hands under my thighs and?—
I swallow hard. We have a title fight to get to that is critical for both of our careers and this is so not the time, and I’m also starting to feel like a creep with how shamelessly I’m ogling him through the windshield.
Yet I cannot seem to stop. He bends down to grab another branch and his shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of tan skin and that perfect V above his waistband and I have to resist the urge to fan myself like a Victorian lady with the vapors. In my defense, I nearly died five minutes ago. My judgment is compromised. My survival instincts have clearly been replaced by entirely different instincts that are equally ancient and biological but significantly less appropriate for the current circumstances.
I force myself to check my phone just to give my eyes something else to do, but there’s still no service and when I look back up and Dominic is wiping rain from his face with one hand, his chest heaving from the effort, I begin staring again. Well, ifyou can’t beat it, might as well enjoy the show. He could be in Magic Mike with that body.
I glance back at the Gonzalez SUV and see Rosa leaning forward in the passenger seat, watching as well. She spots me looking and gives me a smile and a little shrug that seems to sayshey, they volunteered, and I feel a wave of solidarity with this woman I’ve known for all of four hours.
Outside, Dominic and Miguel are absolutely drenched, their clothes plastered to their skin, mud streaking up their arms from the wet bark. The rain is still pounding down and the wind is whipping through the gap in the mountains hard enough to bend the smaller trees. Meanwhile I’m sitting here with the heater on, perfectly dry, watching them work through the windshield like it’s my own personal nature documentary.
I’m a feminist who has never waited for a man to do anything for her in her entire adult life, but at this very moment, it feels extremely feminist to wait in the car while Dominic and Miguel handle the manual labor in a thunderstorm. Yes, very feminist indeed. Self-care, even.
A truck pulls up on the other side of the fallen tree, headlights cutting through the rain, and the driver gets out without hesitation. He’s in his sixties, wearing a cowboy hat that’s already soaked through, and he immediately starts helping like this is just what you do when you come across a tree blocking the road. No introductions, no negotiations, just three men and a chainsaw and a shared understanding that the job needs to get done.
Miguel cuts the trunk into sections while Dominic and the truck driver roll them to the side of the road, all three of them working in a rhythm that doesn’t require language. Within twenty minutes there’s a gap wide enough for a car to pass through, and the truck driver is already climbing back into his cab, giving a wave through the window as he pulls away.
Dominic jogs alongside Miguel back toward their cars, the two of them exchanging a handshake that turns into a back-slapping hug. Miguel waves and heads to his SUV while Dominic makes his way back to the Honda and slides into the driver’s seat, completely drenched.
“Thank god for Miguel,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what we would have done without that chainsaw. Pushed the tree off the cliff with our bare hands?”
“A bit of luck after a string of terrible luck.” I hand him the napkins from the glove compartment, which he uses to wipe his face without much success since he’s soaked through to the bone. “You guys got that cleared pretty fast.”
He nods, tossing the useless napkins aside. “Miguel kept saying something about hurrying so we could make it to the fight. I could have kissed him.” He laughs. “I actually gave him my number and told him I’d get him and his family tickets for tomorrow. He was pretty excited about that.”
“That was nice of you.” I smile, glancing back at their car.
“Nice ofhimto have a freakin chainsaw,” Dominic corrects, and pulls through the gap in the debris. Just like that we’re moving again, tires finding traction, and the fallen tree shrinking in the rearview mirror.
“You know,” he says, glancing over at me, “normally I’d be losing my mind right now. Close to missing the weigh-in, all the press obligations, Roman waiting for me. This fight is everything I’ve been working toward.”
“I know. Same for me.” I think about my editor’s frantic emails, the interviews I’m missing, the story that’s supposed to cement my reputation. “With the first article going viral, the story on this fight will be one of my biggest ever I think.”
