The officer says, “License and registration, please.”
I hand over my license and reach for my registration, which should be in the glove compartment where April stashed it because I’m organizationally challenged. But then I hear her voice in my head with a friendly reminder.
The officer examines both, then looks at me. “Mr. Culpepper, your registration expired two weeks ago.”
My stomach drops.
“Your vehicle registration has expired,” he repeats.
I feel like hitting my head against the steering wheel. April told me about the notice. The one I said I’d take care of and then promptly forgot about because I was thinking about how cute she looked in my hoodie.
“I’m going to have to cite you and have your vehicle towed.”
“Towed? Can’t I just?—?”
“An expired registration means the vehicle isn’t legally allowed on the road. I’m sorry, sir.”
I hang my head, wishing I could remember to follow up on my responsibilities in addition to my feelings for April.
8
CLARK
I’m standingon the side of the highway watching my Jeep get loaded onto a tow truck, holding a citation that’s going to cost me a few hundred dollars, and feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.
I pull out my phone. It’s nearly one a.m. and way too late to call anyone. Except April.
April, who told me to pay the bill.
April, who’s house sitting and probably asleep in my guest room with four dogs snuggled around her.
April, who’s going to give me so much grief for this.
Me: Remember that Jeep registration you reminded me about?
Three conversation dots appear and blink. She’s awake … or I woke her up.
April: Clark Joseph Culpepper. Tell me you didn’t forget.
Me: I got towed.
April: WHERE ARE YOU?
I sent her my location.
April: Stay there. I’m coming to get you.
Me: It’s almost 1 a.m. I can call a ride.
April: Stay. There.
Fifteen minutes later, her car pulls up, and April lowers the window, looking like she just rolled out of bed, which she did. Her brown curls are piled in a messy bun, she’s wearing an oversized Knights hoodie (mine again, I notice with a completely inappropriate amount of pleasure), and her lip juts out.
She looks so huggable.
“Get in, Culpepper,” she says, but there’s no anger in her voice. Just exasperated fondness. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I climb into the passenger seat. “I’m sorry.”
