“Why would I be mad at you?”Say the words, Thomas, and I might forgive you.Tell me you’re sorry you didn’t call after our dinner togetherlast year. Even though it wasn’t a real date, and you aren’t obligated, say the words.
“I just wanted to see if you’d like to go on a drive with me.” He sounds like a man walking through an active mine field, unsure where to step.
“When did you get a car?” I ask in shock.Who decides they want a car and gets one right away without proper consideration?I have to think about a large purchase, and weigh the pros and cons. I have to imagine myself using said purchase before seeing if it feels right. Only then can I pull the trigger. It took me three months to settle on a couch before buying one.
“I bought one yesterday,” he tells me. “My neighbor Kevin knows a guy, and he took me out to see him.” He adds, “It’s not great, but it’ll do until I can decide if I’m going to stay in Elk Lake.”
“Iwouldlike to go on a drive with you,” I tell him. “But you said you’re not a very good driver.”
“I’m getting better,” he tells me. “Also, I have my license, so I’m allowed on the road.” After a beat, he adds, “What do you say? Can I pick you up?”
“So long as we stay in town and don’t go on any busy streets,” I tell him, still unsure of his ability to keep us safe.
“You have a deal,” he says.
“How about in an hour?” I ask. That should give me enough time to get everything straightened up and ready for tomorrow’s shoots—which include three more looks for Thomas’s revenge calendar that we’re making for his parents.
“I can do that,” he says. “But if you get done early, come on out. I’m parked in front of your store.”
I practically run to the front room and look out the window. Once I see him, I release a hellish scream. Thomas is standing by my dream car with a huge smile on his face. His expression shifts to one of concern when he witnesses my distress.
Running to the door of my shop, he opens it and asks, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“That’syour car?” Tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them.
“Do you hate it?” he asks, sounding confused.
That’s when I burst out crying like my grandmother just died. “Hate it?Hate it?”I repeat between sobs. “I don’t hate it, I love it!”
The look on Thomas’s face makes it clear he will never love me. Honestly, I can’t blame him. I’m acting like a real fool here.
“If you love it, why are you crying?” He says the words slowly like he’s trying to keep me calm so I don’t do anything rash. Like hit him over the head with my baseball bat before stealing his car. That I would have to push because I don’t know how to drive.
“Iwas going to buy that car! I saw it listed on social media, and I thought it was my sign to get my license. That’smycar,” I tell him forcefully. I can tell Thomas feels bad, but I don’t care.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I needed a car and this one seemed like a good place to start.”
My face is dripping with sadness. “I don’t want to go on a ride with you anymore,” I tell him.
“Really?” He sounds disappointed enough that I briefly consider he might be starting to care for me.
But even if that’s the case, he boughtmycar, and now I can’t learn how to drive. Instead of assuring him I’m serious, I turn and practically run into the back room. My whole day is ruined.
Rather than taking the hint and leaving, Thomas follows me. Once I’m sitting on my stool, I turn it around and stare at him. His jeans fit him like a second skin, but instead of looking like a rockstar wannabe, he looks like a rugged manly man. His sweater is a super-soft looking navy sweater—I wonder if it’s cashmere—and he’s wearing a dark leather bomber jacket. His wavy brown hair is practically screaming for me to run my hands through it. But I’m mad at him so I’m not going to.
Neither one of us says anything for several moments, and it’s super awkward.
Thomas finally announces, “If I knew you planned on buying the car, I never would have. You should have told me.”
“Why would I tell you?” I demand.
“Then how was I to know?” Darn it, he’s right. I’m punishing him for something he couldn’t have knowledge of. I really hate it when I’m wrong.
“How does it drive?” I ask him.
“Okay, I guess. I mean, it’s old. It’s not as smooth as a newer car.”
“That shouldn’t matter,” I tell him. His questioning look has me explaining, “Harlow Gibson drove a car like that in that old movie,Rocky Love Falls.”
