Sometime Soon

three



I’m inching my way into the right turn. I hate this corner. There’s only a flashing red light and two lanes of traffic trying to turn onto a major roadway, one lane trying to turn left and the other lane trying to turn right. There always seems to be an SUV taking the left turn as I’m attempting to take the right. I can’t see a thing. I have to inch forward as the SUV does, trying to see if there’s oncoming traffic, attempting to take my right turn.

After my frappuccino break with Bryn, my afternoon was not very productive. Karthik never responded to my email, and every time I ventured up to his cubicle on the fifth floor he wasn’t there. There was plenty of evidence of his recent departure, an M.I.T. sweatshirt thrown over his chair, a half eaten sandwich discarded on his desk, but no Karthik.

I’ve also decided to call Jason Randall tonight. I’m nervous about it, but I have nothing to lose. Nothing but time and hope, that is. Athough hope may have already departed. I also have to call my sister back. If I leave that for too much longer she’ll be angry at me for not getting back to her in a timely manner.

The hulking SUV continues to block my view of the road, and I ease off the brake--slowly inching forward again--craning my neck to see, getting dangerously close to being in the middle of the oncoming traffic lane. Suddenly, my car is jolted forward.

I slam on the brake to keep from being pushed into the road while my eyes shoot up to the rearview mirror. I see a guy in the car behind me shaking his head and running a hand over his face and up through his hair.

Another accident, damn.

The SUV zooms into its left turn, and I can now see that the roadway is clear. I turn right and pull over to the side, checking the mirror to make sure the other car has followed me.

“Are you okay?” I hear as I step out and walk around to the back for a damage inspection. He’s driving a black VW Passat. The license plate on his front bumper has left a variety of small dents and nasty scratches on my silver back bumper. His car seems to have no damage.

A pair of scuffed sneakers appear on the curb across from me. I look up at him. He’s surveying the damage, too, or lack thereof in his case. He appears to be somewhere in his early thirties, with wavy dark hair disheveled from running his hands through it, which he’s now doing again. “I’m really sorry,” he says staring at my bumper. “I thought you were turning.”

I’m impressed with his initial concern and now with his admitted guilt. You never know how people are going to react during this first encounter after a car accident, but admitting fault and apologizing are rare.

“I’m fine,” I finally say. “Are you okay?”

He looks at me and nods. I notice that his eyes are bloodshot and his clothes, a red tennis shirt and faded jeans, are hopelessly wrinkled. “Get an estimate and I’ll pay for it,” he says. “You’re okay though?” He checks again.

“I’m fine. We should exchange insurance information. I’ll get a pen.” I go back to my car and fish around in my bag, finally coming up with a pen and a wrinkled yellow sticky note that reminds me to buy cat food. He’s bent over the passenger seat of his car, appearing to be looking for something. I write down his license plate number and the make and model of his car. From my vast accident experience, I now know that all I need is his license plate number for my insurance company to find him and his insurance company.

I watch as he locates what he’s looking for, a small notebook and a pen. He’s writing in the notebook as he comes toward me again, balancing it on his hand. He rips the notepage off and hands the paper with frayed edges to me. “You can do whatever you like, but I’m hoping you’ll let me pay you directly for the damage. I’ll pay for a rental car, too, if you need one while your car is being repaired.”

I glance at the paper in my hand. He’s written down a name, Ryan Miller--his name, I assume--and a telephone number. I look up at him. “You do have insurance, don’t you?”

He runs his fingers through his hair again. Dark cowlicks wave in all directions.“I have insurance, but this is obviously my fault, and I’d prefer not to have my rates raised.”

I study him closer. His hair and clothes are a mess, and he is a bad driver--or at least a distracted one--but beneath it all, I realize he’s a very good-looking guy. He has high cheekbones, a straight aquiline nose, and a shadow of a beard. His tired eyes are an odd golden shade of brown beneath dark slashes of brow. He appears exhausted and annoyed with himself, but earnest enough. “We can try it your way,” I offer, knowing it’s easy to contact his insurance company if he’s being less than honest.

“Good. Thanks,” he says, looking relieved.

“Are your insurance rates high from being in a lot of accidents?” I inquire.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not yet. Although the way things are going, that’s a real possibility.”

I eye him inquisitively.

“I’m pretty sleep-deprived these days,” he explains. “Some friends and I have been trying to get a business off the ground and, well, it’s a lot of long hours.” He shrugs as his voice trails off.

“Maybe you should stay off the roads until you can get a good night’s sleep?” I suggest. “You might find yourself in more than a fender bender next time.”

“Other drivers sharing the road with me would certainly be better off.” He grins. “Well, I’d better let you be on your way. I’ll stay a few hundred yards back this time. In fact, I’ll give you a five-minute head start.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I say, feeling a smile forming.

“I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll wait to hear from you.” He starts to turn away and stops. “Wait, what’s your name?”

I hesitate, remembering Bryn’s serial killer comment from earlier. Then I figure offering my first name probably isn’t too risky. “Andrea.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Andrea.”



“He said ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you’?” my sister Laura asks me later on the telephone.

“Strange thing to say when I’m going to be calling to get money for the accident he caused.”

“Maybe he likes you,” she offers.

“Maybe he had no idea what he was saying. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. I was tempted to offer him a ride so he wouldn’t get back behind the wheel.”

“I can’t believe you were in another accident. You’ve got some bad car karma going on.”

I’m sitting on the floor in my living room--the telephone tucked between my neck and shoulder--surrounded by papers, attempting to organize my software feature data for work. Perhaps if I were more organized, I would be less confused by the conflicting information with which I had to work. This endeavor is made even more challenging by Tiger, who is leaping onto the scattered papers, enjoying the crunching sounds he’s producing. I grab him off the papers and pull him onto my lap. His green eyes peer up at me in adoration as his purring reflex kicks in. But then he remembers the papers and squirms out of my lap. Crunch, crunch, crunch….

“What is that noise?” Laura asks.

“Tiger is helping me finish some work.” I try to gather up the now wrinkled papers.

“Has Tiger decided to try his paw at marketing?”

“I wish. It really is time for him to go out and get a job. Something that doesn’t require opposable thumbs.”

Laura laughs. “So tell me--what happened with Derek?”

I groan into the phone.

“Was it that bad?”

“It was beyond bad.” Then I proceed to describe our afternoon together.

“Ooo that’s disgusting!” she squeals. “And he made a move on you in the middle of all that. How could he be so clueless?”

Thinking about that smell and those bugs again makes me just want to change the subject. I interrupt her commiseration with a question. “When is the tasting?” News of my car accident had sidetracked our conversation.

“It’s this Saturday. Can you make it?” She wants me to join her and my mother at the bakery they have chosen to make the wedding cake. They are to sample different flavor combinations. Normally, I’d be all over free cake. But since the wedding planning began, being with my sister and mother is as close as I’ll ever come to being in a war zone, I hope. Of course, Jonathan, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, can’t make it. He’s working again, trying to make partner at his law firm. They met in law school. Laura is a lawyer, as well, but she works in real estate law where she is actually able to get weekends off. Trying to build law careers and plan a wedding at the same time are not making for a blissful nuptial planning period.

“Are you going to make every attempt to avoid antagonizing her?” I ask.

“I don’t do anything. She’s the one who makes me crazy--quilting me into going with her to make all these decisions. She asks me what I want, and when I tell her she disagrees and just does what she wants anyway. There’s no point in my even being there, especially when she makes me take time off during the week to go through this ridiculous charade.”

“Well, thanks for the full disclosure,” I say. “You couldn’t pay me to go with you on Saturday.”

“Come on, Andy. I need you there as a buffer. Please?”

“Fine,” I agree, rolling my eyes even though she can’t see me. Eating cake for an hour in the afternoon does add some incentive to my acceptance.

“Thank you. Maybe it will even be fun with you there.”

“Yeah, sure. What time is fun?” I ask.

“Not anytime soon.” Laura laughs.

Laura is my junior by four years. She’s an attorney and she’s engaged, but I still think of her as my little sister. What she has never learned is that it’s simply easier to agree with everything Mom says when you’re in her presence. Tell her what she wants to hear, and then go ahead and do whatever you like. There is no point in arguing with her. She has superhuman stamina for arguments. She thinks I am a most agreeable daughter. But what she doesn’t know can’t hurt me.

I sign off after making arrangements to meet them at the bakery on Saturday. The next telephone call is to Mr. Frameless Glasses. I look at his neat block writing on the business card and dial. After four rings, his voicemail answers. “You’ve reached Jason,” his smooth, deep voice begins, “Leave a message.” Beeeeep.

I take a breath and try to speak in a calm and casual voice. “Hi, Jason. This is Andrea. We met at Café Blue the other night. You had the waiter give me your card.” And this is when Tiger decides to come barreling at me and the stack of papers I’ve collected on my lap. He flies at the stack, hitting it head-on and sending papers flying. He lands on my lap while continuing to bat at the airborne sheets. “Dammit Tiger,” I mutter, as the phone falls from my shoulder where I’ve been balancing it. I grab it up quickly. “Umm,” I continue into the telephone, trying to remember what I was saying. “I was sorry we didn’t have more time to chat, too. You can reach me back at…” I leave the number to my cell phone and hang up, wondering if his voicemail caught the brief commotion. I had planned to say something clever about his disappearing act, but Tiger threw me off, and I figured brief was better.

“Well, Tiger,” I say looking down at him. He has rolled onto his back, offering his tummy up for a rub. “I’d say you got the drop on those papers, my friend. They never saw you coming.”