Three
Sierra
Of all the people to stop by to check on me, of course it’s my ex.
“Oh, Logan. Hi.” I try for a beaming Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader smile, but I fear I look like I’m baring my teeth at him like a rabid coyote. “Funny running into you here.”
Logan stands in front of a large pickup truck, the fading light and dust giving his surprisingly attractive build a photo-filtered look. He used to be a skinny, lanky dude back in high school, but he’s clearly blossomed since then. He’s filled out in the best way—broad chest, narrow waist, and good lord, those forearms. As a climber, I’m used to seeing and appreciating well-formed forearms—mine aren’t too shabby either. But Logan’s are beautiful, shapely, and well-framed with his rolled-up sleeves. I want to run my fingers from his elbows down to his wrists.
His widening eyes drift over the wreckage that is now my beloved Clunker. I try to step in front of his line of sight, as if my five-foot-five frame can possibly block out the twelve-foot—and steadily growing taller—pillar of steam pouring out of the hood.
“Are you okay?” he asks finally. “Do you need help?”
I blink. It’s a desert mirage. A mirage of a hot guy coming to save me. Which is absurd. Men don’t help me, apparently not without sexual favors demanded in return. And I’ve had enough of that today, thank you very much.
“Sierra, are you okay?” he asks again.
Am I okay? My home sits less than a foot from falling off a steep, rocky cliff, and cars keep speeding by like they’re auditioning for the Indy 500. If one could look past the clear engine catastrophe, looks-wise, Clunker has seen better days too. Ancient and rusty, paint worn thin in places, slightly dented above her left tire. She looks haggard, covered in a thin film of dust, and—oh great—so do I.
Every girl daydreams about the day she runs into her ex again. I imagined a hot cocktail dress, or being in the middle of a climbing photoshoot forOutside Magazine, or wearing a quail-egg-sized diamond so flashy it temporarily blinds him. Perhaps all three scenarios at the same time. But instead, I get this.
We’re not okay, I want to say. But then what? I clearly deserve this. Turns out the universe still thinks I’m not absolved of my sins. It’s like a fine irony wine that, in my twenty-four years of life, both the worst days of my life occurred in the same place, nearly seven years apart.
“I’m fine,” I say lightly. “Thanks for stopping, but I’ve got this under control. Good to see you again.”
Liar, liar, van on fire.
Logan’s jaw tightens, his posture stiff and uncomfortable as I feel. He looks past me at my van. “It’s starting to smoke,” he says. “Is that a fire?”
“Oh, fuck.”
That was a joke, universe!
I race to the back and pop open Clunker’s trunk. Somewhere,somewherein this disorganized mess, I have a fire extinguisher. I rummage under the sink, but no luck. There’s a pop, then a loud hiss. White slop coats my windshield, and the smoke and fire dissipate in another huff of steam. Logan appears, a fire extinguisher in his hands. White gunk drips from the head.
My hand closes around my own fire extinguisher—it’s buried next to my one pot and lid. I retrieve it, just in case Clunker gets any more ideas about how hot she is.
“Thanks,” I say weakly.
He stays silent, his expression unreadable, as his eyes drift over all my worldly possessions. My twin-sized bunk with my worn Goodwill sheets and discount comforter, my chipped laminated countertop kitchen with the tiny sink and one-burner electric stovetop, the open cabinet with my collection of pasta and ramen noodles and random supplies ready for his perusal. My pile of climbing harnesses, ropes, and other gear, which I didn’t have time to untangle before my hasty escape from Dave. I usually take such good care of my gear too, and this is not how I want to present myself. Any climber worth their snuff would be appalled.
I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I’ll give him a piece of my mind if he thinks he can say anything about the way I live.
“Well, thanks, Logan. I’ve got it from here.” I smile my mostcharming smile—complete with sweat beading on my upper lip.
He laughs then, shaking his head. At least he sees the hilarity of the situation. His laugh is strangely contagious. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. The laugh goes on a tad bit longer than I think is appropriate or polite, then he groans, a surprisingly sexy sound from a man who looks appalled by what he’s witnessing.
“All right.” He sags, the tension gone from his face. He shakes his head ruefully, as if he can’t believe he’s in this terrible situation of having to rescue his scandalous ex-girlfriend.
Me too, Logan. Me too.
“I’m going to tow your van to the mechanic’s,” he says. “I’ve got a hitch for towing.”
“That is so kind of you, but I’ve got this.”
He shakes his head again. He seems to be fighting another laugh, which feels great. Come on, universe, at least give me the cocktail dress to balance out the horror of my ex laughing at how pitiful I am.
“Sierra,” he says gently. “I’ll say this the nicest way I can. Your van is fucked. I can’t leave you on the side of the road like this.”
