The rain tops the list.
Scratch that. Driving in the rain tops the list. It’s usually just a dreary never-ending drizzle, but once in a while the skies open up for an especially heavy downpour. The shitty old Toyota I bought for five hundred bucks doesn’t deal well with that weather, the engine randomly sputtering and cutting out like it’s drowning. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to fix the problem.
September was a heavy month for rain. It looks like October is competing for a record, too, because it’s pouring again tonight. It’s only a matter of time before the car gives out on me, right here in the middle of this deserted road. Then I’ll be just like the poor sucker on the shoulder up ahead, his hazards flashing.
Even though I’ve already made my mind up to keep moving, when I realize it’s a BMW Z8, my foot eases off the gas pedal. I’ve never seen one in real life before. Probably because there are only a few thousand in the entire country and each one would go for a pretty penny. It’s rare and it’s fucking gorgeous.
And it has a flat tire.
“Nope.” Changing tires in the rain sucks. That rich bastard can wait for roadside assistance to come save him. I’m sold on that plan until my headlights catch long blond hair in the driver’s side. Twenty feet past, my conscience takes over and I can’t help but brake. “Shit,” I mutter, pulling off to the shoulder and slowly backing up.
No one’s getting out, but if she’s alone, she’s probably wary. With a loud groan, I step out into the rain, yanking the hood of my gray sweatshirt up over my head. I jog over to the passenger-side window. Growing up with a sheriff as a father, you learn never to stand on the road, even if there isn’t a car in sight. People get clipped all the time.
I knock against the glass.
And wait.
“Come on . . .” I mutter, my head hung low, the rain pounding on my back feeling like a cold hose bath. It can’t be more than 40 degrees out here. Another five seconds and I’m leaving her here.
Finally the window cracks open, just enough for me to peer through. She’s alone in the car. It’s dark, but I’m pretty sure I see tears. I definitely see smeared black makeup. And her eyes . . . They glisten with fear. I don’t blame her. She’s driving a high-priced car and she’s sitting alone out here after eleven at night. And now there’s a guy in a hoodie hanging outside her window. I adjust my tone accordingly. “Do you need help?”
I hear her swallow hard before answering, “Yes. I do.” She sounds young, but it’s hard to tell with some women.
“Have you called Triple-A?”
She hesitates and then shakes her head.
Okay . . . not very talkative. She smells incredible, though, based on the flowery perfume wafting out of her car. Incredible and rich. “Your spare’s in the trunk?”
“I . . . think so?”
I sigh. Looks like I’m changing a tire in the pouring rain after all. “Okay. Pop your trunk and I’ll see what I can do. Stay in here.”
I round the car. Beneath half a dozen shopping bags and under the trunk floor, I find the spare tucked away. Running back to get my jack and flashlight out of my car—I use my own tools whenever I can—I settle down by the back corner of the Z8, happy for the dead roads. Not one vehicle has passed since I stopped.
The BMW is jacked and the lug nuts are off when the driver’s door opens. “I’ll have this changed in another two minutes!” I holler, gently pulling the rim off. “You should stay inside.”
The door slams shut—I cringe, you don’t slam anything on a car like this!—and then heels click on the pavement as she comes around to stand next to me. The rain suddenly stops pelting my back. “Is that better?” she asks in a soft voice.
I don’t need to glance up to know that there’s an umbrella hovering over me. “You’re not from Portland, are you?” I mumble with a smile. Neither am I, technically, but I’ve learned to adapt in the four years that I’ve lived here. Part of that is knowing that no guy in Portland would be caught dead using an umbrella. Neither would most women, actually. We’d rather duck our head and get wet than be labeled a wuss. Smart? No.
“No, not originally.”
I yank the tire off and roll it to the side. That’s when my eyes get caught up in a pair of long, bare legs right beside me, covered in goose bumps from the cold. Forcing my head back down with a low exhale, I grab the spare.
“Thank you for stopping. Most people wouldn’t have.”
Most people, including me. “You should really get a Triple-A plan.”
“I have one,” she admits somberly and then, after a second’s hesitation, adds, “My phone died and I can’t find my car charger.”
So, she was totally stranded. As much as this sucks, I’m glad I stopped. This should give my conscience something to feel good about, seeing as I’ve tested it plenty over the years. “I can’t find my phone charger half the time. It’s usually under the seat. I finally went and bought a second cord that I keep in my glove compartment.”
I hear the smile in her voice as she says, “I’ll have to remember that.”
“Yeah, you should. Especially in a car like this.” The spare is bolted in place in another minute.
“You’re very fast.”
I smirk as I lower the car. “I’ve been changing tires since I could walk.” Well, not really, but it feels like it. Grabbing the flat tire with one arm, I intentionally step out from the umbrella so I don’t get her dirty with it on my way to the trunk. It’s too late for me, but I’m used to it. I go through more clothes than the average guy. “Do you have far to go? These aren’t meant for long distances.”
“About ten miles.”
“Good. I can stay behind you until you get off the highway, if that makes you feel better,” I offer, wiping my wet, dirty hands against my jeans. “I’m headed that way anyway.”
“That’s very kind of you.” She doesn’t make a move to leave, though. She just stands there, her face hidden by the darkness and that giant umbrella.
And then I hear the stifled sob.
Ah, shit. I don’t know what to do with a rich girl crying on the side of the road. Or crying girls in general. I’ve made plenty of them do it, unintentionally, and felt bad about it after. But other than saying, “I’m sorry,” I’m at a loss. I hesitate before asking, “Is everything okay? I mean, do you have someone you can call? You can use my phone if you want. I’ll grab it from the car.”
“No, I don’t have anyone.”
A long, lingering silence hangs over us.
“Well . . .” I really just want to get home and catch The Late Show, but I didn’t get soaked so I could leave her standing out here.
“Are you happy?” Her question cuts through the quiet night like a rude interruption.
“Uh . . .” What? I shift nervously on my feet.
“In your life. Are you happy? Or do you ever wish you could just start over?”
I frown into the darkness. “Right now I wish I wasn’t freezing my ass off in the rain,” I admit. What the hell else do I say to that? I wasn’t ready for deep, thought-provoking questions. I generally avoid those, and God knows the idiots I hang out with don’t toss them around. Is this chick out of her mind?
She steps in closer, lifting her umbrella to shield, granting me part of my wish. “I mean, if you could just start over fresh . . . free yourself from all the bad decisions you’ve made . . . would you do it?”
Obviously this woman’s shitty day started long before the flat tire. “Sounds like you have some regrets,” I finally offer. It’s not really an answer to her question but, honestly, I don’t know how to respond to that.