The light turned green. I pulled the bill of my hat down low and eased onto the gas. The steeple loomed taller. Parked cars lined the street on both sides—an overflow due to the too-small church parking lot. The maples broke apart at the same time as the clouds, and there it was—the church, bathed in sunlight. Several bridesmaids stood outside on the front lawn, my stepsisters among them. My cantering heart accelerated into a gallop. I slid down in the seat and observed what I could as discreetly as possible.
They wore strapless tea-length dresses in light mocha. Not tight-fitting satin, but a flowing chiffon. Each one carried bouquets of yellow, white, and peach. I tipped my sunglasses up and squinted out the open window. Cabbage roses, mums, billy balls, and ranunculus. Not too fallish, but not too summery either. A perfect September bouquet that matched the dresses wonderfully. I craned my neck to soak up some more details, but my foray into spying was going . . . going . . . gone.
Perhaps once more around the block wouldn’t be too conspicuous. The street in front of the church wasn’t bustling with traffic, but it wasn’t empty of it either, and I was wearing a hat and sunglasses. My tan Honda Accord was pretty standard fare when it came to cars. And I hadn’t even seen the bride or the groom. I peeled my attention away from the shrinking wedding party in my rearview mirror when everything in me seized. My heart, my muscles, my grip on the steering wheel. I inhaled a sharp, loud, gasping breath and slammed my foot onto the brake. I wasn’t quick enough.
My Honda rear-ended the car in front of me.
For a second, or maybe two, I didn’t move. I sat behind the wheel, staring wide-eyed at the back end of a maroon Subaru Outback with a sticker on the rear window that said Team Oxford Comma. It wasn’t until the driver stepped out that panic set in. Full-throttle, mortifying panic. The kind that made me want to curl into a ball underneath the steering wheel and never come out again. Or hit the gas and take off—my first and hopefully only hit-and-run. One thing was certain. I couldn’t get out of my car. Not with the wedding party a block away. But the driver stood at the place our two cars met, shielding his eyes from the sun and surveying the damage, leaving me no choice but to join him.
I snagged my purse from the passenger seat and slipped outside. “I am so, so sorry!”
The man I approached had a head full of thick, dark hair, nicely gelled, and wore well-fitting tan dress pants with a matching suit coat draped over his arm, a white dress shirt, and a gold tie. I could only assume he was a wedding guest. Thankfully not one of Matt’s college friends. I didn’t recognize him at all.
He squinted against the sun. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Besides the heart palpitations anyway. “Are you?”
“I’ve survived worse.” He smiled when he said it, but any and all humor was lost on me at the moment. Perhaps someday I would laugh at this. A long, long time from now, when it didn’t feel like the world’s most embarrassing thing ever to happen.
“I can’t believe I ran into you like that,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Really. There was no damage done, see?” He patted his body to show himself intact.
“Yes, there was. I put a dent in your bumper.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, thankful the hat covered my copper-colored locks from view. They were too recognizable. “I wasn’t paying attention. It was completely my fault. I’m really, truly sorry.”
He smiled again, like my level of remorse amused him.
I shot a nervous glance over my shoulder. One of my stepsisters peered through the afternoon brightness in my direction. My panic peaked. I dug inside my purse, pulled out a business card, and shoved it into the man’s hand. “This has my e-mail and phone number. Please get in touch with me, and I’ll—I’ll get you my insurance information.”
He looked down at the card, then back at me with his head slightly atilt.
I’d already started backpedaling. “I’m very sorry. I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I glanced again over my shoulder. One stepsister was now nudging the other stepsister, pointing in my direction. “It’s an emergency, actually.”
His head tilt grew more pronounced.
“Please get in touch with me. I promise to plead one hundred percent guilty. Really, I’m so sorry.” Before the man could object, I dove inside my car, reversed, shifted into drive, and drove away. As fast as the speed limit would carry me.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Sun, Sep 13, 2015 8:06 p.m.
Subject: Brief Encounter
Dear Ms. Woods,
Is that too formal? It feels formal. But I’m not sure what the proper protocol is when addressing someone I met in such circumstances. My name is Nate. I’m the gentleman you bumped into this past Saturday outside Good Shepherd Episcopal Church—the one on Mulberry Avenue? I don’t know why I’m feeling the need to be so specific. Unless you make a habit of running into cars often, you probably remember the incident just fine without any prodding.