I told Fowler I’d keep checking my emails, and it’s obvious the douchebag was testing to make sure I was telling the truth. I type in a text to him: Sorry. Just got in. My car broke down and my phone lost its charge.
I stare at the words. Any excuse seems insufficient. Well, for Fowler, anyway. He’s short with a Napoleon complex, so he’s fond of marching around the office spitting out phrases like, “I don’t need excuses, I need action.”
So it doesn’t matter if I’m lying dead in a ditch somewhere, the victim of a horrific car accident. I wasn’t at his beck and call, and therefore, I have failed him.
And the sad thing is, he’s not the only one with attitude in the firm. In fact, I think they have a “douchebag requirement” in order to become an attorney there. I haven’t met a partner that doesn’t look at me like I’m a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. And so yes, while the original plan was to take a year off while deciding what law schools I wanted to apply to, right now, my answer is: None of them.
But I’m going to do it anyway. Anything else would break my father’s heart.
As I’m imagining the major heart attack my dad would have if I ever told him what I really feel, my phone begins to ring. It’s a number I don’t recognize, with a 570 area code, the area code for Northwestern Pennsylvania. I think of letting it ring through, like I always do with unknown phone numbers, but in the last second, I decide to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Katydid.”
All the air whooshes out of my lungs. His low drawl reaches into my chest and pulls at my heart like he has it on a string. I straighten like a pin on top of my lace comforter. “Dax?” I’m breathless. I swallow. Calm, Katherine, calm. “How did you get this number?”
“You gave it to me.”
“What? No, I didn’t.”
He lets out a sigh and says, very condescendingly, “You gave it to the Auto Club, who in turn, gave it to me.”
“Ohhhh. Right.” I’d been getting worried that not only had he become hotter than hell in the past four years, he’d also developed magical telepathic powers. “Can you stop calling me that? I’m Katherine, now.”
“Katherine?” He says it like it’s a name he’s never heard before. “What, do all the hoity-toity types in Boston get off on all those extra syllables?”
I wrinkle my nose, annoyed. “Katydid has just as many.” He seems to take it as a personal affront that I want to go and make something of myself instead of being stuck in Friesville forever. “So did you fix my car?” I say, trying to sound stronger and more in control of myself than I actually feel.
“Hold your horses, there, Katherine,” he says with a laugh. “Damn, girl. I’ve had your car in my possession for less than two hours.”
“Well, I seem to remember that everyone in town raves about how good you are.”
“True. But I like to go slow, and take my time,” he says, and I can’t help but think of the double meaning behind his words. My pulse increases by a factor of twenty. “Plus I haven’t quite had everyone in town,” he continues, his voice getting deeper. “You want to test me out and see for yourself?”
I’m blushing now and I feel a stirring in my lower belly. Actually, even lower than that if I’m honest with myself. I throw my comforter off and stare at my painted toes. I am so not letting him do this to me. “Look. Can you fix it, or not?”
“Of course I can. But it isn’t just a matter of cleaning up the clogged oil pumps. The engine’s blown.”
I cringe. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. Not to mention that the transmission’s on its last legs.”
“So, you won’t have it fixed by tomorrow?”
He laughs. “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
“So what are my options?” I ask desperately.
“With me, or your car?”
“Screw you,” I groan.
“If you can afford it, get a new car, Katydid. One that’ll keep you safe in that big ol’ city you call home now.”
“I don’t want a new car,” I tell him, gritting my teeth to the harsh reality that I can’t afford a new car. “I want to fix that one. Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Anything I do’ll be more expensive than the car’s worth.”
That was not what I needed to hear right now. “Can’t you do a band-aid? Something cheap that will keep it running so I can use it now and then?”
He pauses. I figure it’s a long shot, so I’m surprised when he says, “Could be.”
I exhale, just as I hear something thump downstairs. A door slams closed. Then I hear my mother, voice high and screeching. I can only make out parts of what she’s saying: If you hadn’t . . . Then my father’s voice, calm but strained: I can only . . .