I look in the rearview mirror and run my hand down the side of my beard. How does she know?
Me:You wouldn’t know.
Journey:That’s what you think.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and shove the gear in reverse. If she doesn’t want to come to me, I will go to her. This is the game we’re playing, and I will not let her win every move.
A thick fog fills the back roads to her apartment. It’s warm and muggy for this time of year.
My phone has been buzzing on the seat but if I take my eyes off the road, I’ll end up wrapped around a tree and since I have a daughter to take care of, I will ignore whatever words Journey is likely throwing at me.
It takes about twenty minutes before I pull into the parking lot behind her building, finding an empty spot next to her Jeep. At least I know she’s here, not that makes me feel that much better since she blew off our date.
Just as I take the turn into the open space, my headlights frame her body. I slam on the brakes as she pulls her arm up across her forehead from the blinding light. What the—?
I lift the gear into park and hop out. “What are you doing on the ground next to your Jeep?” I could have observed the scene for an additional two seconds before asking a stupid question, but I don’t think before I speak.
“I must have hit a nail today,” she says.
She didn’t stand me up. Who would have thought?
“Damn. It looks like you ran over a butcher knife. The tire is gone, huh?”
“Yeah,” she says as she cranks the jack she has in place. A woman who can change a flat. I like.
“Want me to get the spare off the back while you get the flat off?”
Journey glances up at me and stares for a long second. I made sure not to ask her to step aside because I’m learning quickly, she is capable of handling most things on her own and she finds a man’s offer to help offensive rather than kind. She reaches down below her knee and hands me the lug-nut wrench. “Thanks,” she says.
I know this is probably obnoxious, but I’m enjoying watching her sweat as she works her ass off changing the flat. Kristy couldn’t even pump her own damn gas because the scent of gasoline made her gaggy. This is a pleasant change.
“Want to make sure the nuts are tight?” Journey asks, pointing at the tire.
“For some reason, I don’t think I should question your ability to tighten anything’s nuts.” That gets her to smile. I love when she smiles. It’s like a solar eclipse; infrequent and blinding in the most brilliant way.
“You’re probably starving,” she says. “I can order a pizza or something.”
She’s inviting me to stay.
“Are you hungry?” I ask her.
Journey shrugs. “I’m never really hungry. I just eat for the sake of survival.” Another interesting fact I’ve been wondering about.
“You’re never hungry? How does that work? I don’t think there’s ever a minute in the day when I’m not hungry.”
“Stress does a number on my stomach,” she says. This is more honesty than she’s been willing to share with me in the last couple of weeks. If stress gives her stomach issues, I can’t imagine what she’s going through after losing her dad.
“That’s crappy. Although, starving can also do a number on your stomach, so you have to keep that in mind.”
Journey’s response is silent but clear as she presses her lips together and lifts her brows as if I’m telling her something she already knows. There’s a fine line of saying too much and too little with her.
“Will you have some pizza if we order?”
“I’ll have a slice,” she says.
“Let me grab my phone.” I walk around to the other side of my truck and retrieve my phone from the passenger seat, realizing I never looked at the missed texts. They’re from Journey, saying another night might work out better and she can’t make it to Breaker Grill now. Nothing about a flat tire.
“I just saw your texts from when I was driving here. You didn’t look too surprised to see me when I got out of the truck though.”
