Not in town. Went to Providence to see Whitney.
It wasn’t the first time I had blown a tire, I just wasn’t planning on it happening today. I pocketed my phone and slipped out of the passenger door, trying to stay as far away from the highway as possible. I popped the trunk, scooted my road trip necessities aside, and opened the spare tire well.
Shit.
It was empty.
I groaned as I closed it back up and slammed the trunk shut. The last time I had been back home to visit my family, Shep had insisted that I replace my spare because it was old and he was worried it wouldn’t hold up.
. . . And I had left it sitting at his house.
I quickly swiped into the roadside assistance app that I paid handsomely for a membership to and put in an emergency service request. I leaned against the fender as the little dots swirled around in a circle.
We have your location. The estimated time a service technician will reach you is five hours.
Five hours.
Five hours?!
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered as I kicked the blown-out tire for good measure.
I cursed up a storm as I wiggled back across the front seats and slumped behind the wheel.
And, of course, a text from Ryan was waiting.
Ryan
Do you have an ETA for when you’ll be back in the city, or are you staying with her for a few days?
It wasn’t like I had anyone else to talk to at the moment. If I called or texted Whitney, Wander, or Shep, they would freak out. Waiting five hours for a new tire wasn’t ideal, but I wasn’t an idiot. A single woman walking along the highway to find help is basically the start of every slasher flick.
So, I cracked my windows an inch and locked the doors.
Me
I was on my way back, but blew a tire.
He texted back immediately.
Ryan
Send me your location.
Me
Calm down, Prince Charming. I have roadside assistance and they’re on their way.
Ryan
How long until they get there?
Me
Soon.
Ryan
How long?
