Dad harrumphed at that, but he knew her well enough to know not to fight her on this.
Her call waiting buzzed and… it was Courtney.
"Dad, gotta go. My publicist is calling me," Darla chimed in casually like this was a totally normal thing for her to say.
"When you’re done with your publicist, call Triple A," he said, like this was her usual reason to get off the phone and not totally nuts.
Darla clicked over to Courtney.
"Hey," Darla said like she wasn’t pulling up the carpet to search for a spare tire she hoped was still in her front trunk. Excellent news, it was right there where it was supposed to be.
"Got a second?" Courtney asked.
"Yup." She wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear while she pulled out the spare. Look at that, it came right out. Sweet. "Lots of them."
"Why are you grunting?" Courtney asked, her publicist spider-like senses probably glitching and going haywire.
"I’m changing a tire," Darla said, loud and proud and badass.
"Where are you changing this tire?" Courtney asked, slower than entirely necessary.
"King Soopers." Darla heaved the excellent spare tire on the ground next to the flat bummer tire. "I needed groceries."
She grabbed the plus-sign tool thingy and tried to turn the tire-bolt whatever. But the turner plus-sign thing wouldn’t budge. She put the head right there to slide onto the round ball things, but… nothing.
Had she done this in the wrong order? Gah, this was not going well.
"Hey, do you know if I jack up the car before or after I loosen the tire-bolt whatevers?" she asked.
Then she realized how that sounded, and dammit, she should just call a damn tow truck from south Broadway.
Except, no, she could do this. She was a licensed driver, and she’d once read the page in the manual, and how hard could this really be?
"Don’t…uh…jack anything up," Courtney said. "Hold on. I’m going to grab one of the guys."
Darla held on since she didn’t really have any alternatives.
"Darla?" Mach asked into the phone.
"Hey, Mach," she said like this was a totally normal circumstance, they were totally normal people, and there was no flat tire.
She climbed back into the car so she could have this conversation outside of the prying eyes and ears of the general public.
She relayed the issue, and then Mach dropped an f-bomb.
"You don’t need to cuss about it. I’ve got it under control," she assured.
She took a quick peek at the manual in the glove box. Just a quick bit of review before she really got started.
She scanned the text. Easy peasy. Unscrew the tire-bolt-whatevers, pull off the one tire, and slide on the other. Then screw the tire-bolt-whatevers back into place.
No big deal. She could handle this by herself. Like. A. Boss.
"You just called lug nuts ‘bobble thingies’ and the tire iron a ‘plus-sign doohickey,’" he pointed out.
"It’s just a flat. No big deal." It wasn’t. No one was even bleeding out. There wasn’t a shortage of morphine. And, really, the tire wasn’t even that flat. It still had a bit of air. The rim barely kissed the asphalt!
"When’s the last time you changed a tire?" Mach asked.
