Joy Ride

But there’s no need to find the garage, since Henley’s standing at the curb, looking like she just stepped out of The Great Gatsby. Big sunglasses cover her eyes, and a red silk scarf is tossed elegantly over her hair. A purple dress shows off her legs. She holds a bottle of champagne and a little jacket.

Lord have mercy.

I forget I’m annoyed. I forget what time it is. I nearly forget my name. I pull over, double-park, and call out, “Have I gone back in time, Daisy Buchanan?”

She laughs as she pats the scarf. “Perhaps you have, old sport. I fancy a drive to the country.”

As she walks over to Blue Betty, I hop out, head around the back, and open the passenger door for her. But she doesn’t get in. Instead, she hands me the bottle, then says as if she’s in church, “I just need a moment.”

She hops on the hood, and falls back in slow-mo, as if she’s making a snow angel on my car. A look of exquisite bliss spreads across her face as she murmurs, “I understand love at first sight. I fall in love with every Triumph TR6 I see.”

Nothing, not a damn thing, has ever looked finer than Henley in her purple dress as she luxuriates on the hood of my ride. I would snap a photo if I were a cell-phone-picture kind of guy. But I’m not, since I know it’ll last forever in my mind’s eye.

“Glad to hear you like Blue Betty.”

She rolls to her side and strokes the hood. “And you gave her a name,” she says, utterly delighted.

“Of course I gave her a name.”

“She is beautiful,” Henley says, planting a quick kiss on the metal then hopping off the hood.

I set the champagne in the back, then Henley slips into her seat and smooths her dress as I shut her door. I return to the driver’s seat and cast her one more admiring glance. As I drink her in, from the scarf to the royal purple of the dress, I picture her getting ready a few minutes earlier. I wonder what her place looks like. If she’s neat or messy. If her apartment would share secrets about Henley she has yet to reveal. I’ve never seen where she lives. I don’t entirely get what she’s up to. Most of all, I have no clue what she wants from me, or how to even broach the topic again, so I sidestep to safer ground. “So this is the girlie Henley?”

“It seemed appropriate for our expedition.”

I tip my head toward her building. “I bet your place is full of pink and rhinestones.”

She swats my arm. “Shame on you. I’m a diamonds kind of girl. Now, let’s be on our way.” She shoos me along, and I steer away from the curb and navigate through SoHo toward the FDR Drive. As we head out of the city, we’re quiet. I’m focused on driving, but I’m also honestly not sure what to say next. Last night felt like the start of something. The door opened on the dance floor, then widened when we cleared the air about our split, but it swung shut abruptly as soon as she hung up her phone. I’d been so sure where the evening was headed, then it unraveled into the mystery of her once more.

She reaches into her purse and fishes around. As I stop at a light, she shows me a crinkly clear plastic bag with a blue bow on it. Inside are two bath bombs.

“For you,” she says, with a shy smile. Is Henley shy about something? About anything? If she is, she wears shyness well, because that smile is endearing. “To say I’m sorry I had to leave early last night.”

Her apology intrigues me. The light changes, so I hit the gas, say thank you for the gift, and let her continue. She taps the outline of the white and tan bath bomb. “This is Cedar Grove. So it’s super manly. And the other is Peach Dreams.”

“So, super manly, too?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Peach Dreams just smells pretty.” She smiles and brushes some loose strands of hair from her face.

“Want me to put the top up?”

“Not until hail is shrieking from the sky. Besides, that’s what this is for,” she says, running a hand down the scarf. She relaxes into the seat as I turn onto the FDR Drive. She sets the gift in the console.

I glance at it briefly then return my eyes to the road. I can’t help but wonder if the gift means something. Two bath bombs. One masculine. One feminine. But as soon as those ridiculous thoughts land in my brain, I’m fucking embarrassed. This girl does not want romance from me, or mushy thoughts of coupledom. I don’t know what she wants. I push them into a far corner in my head then kick some dirt over them. She’s simply saying she’s sorry for cutting out early, not for dashing my hopes for a sleepover, with homemade pancakes for breakfast as a bonus—and I make kickass blueberry pancakes. Besides, I ought to know better. I need to stick to my own guideline—don’t sleep with the enemy.

Though, I’ve already crossed that line a few times. Better amend the rule to—don’t fall for the enemy.

I try my best to keep her at a distance. “Thank you for the gift, but you don’t have to say you’re sorry for anything.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. You had business to take care of. Did you get everything squared away?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pained look on her face. “I think so,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she believes it. She brings her fingers to her mouth, as if she’s about to bite her nail. She stops herself, placing her hands in her lap.

Out of instinct, I set a hand on her thigh. “Hey, are you okay?”

She nods, and it’s the tough kind. The I’ll be fine style. “I will be.”

“Anything . . . you want to talk about? Even though it would be weird for us to discuss business, I guess.”

“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to avoid?”

“That probably means I shouldn’t ask you about the Bugatti guy, either.”

She thrusts her arms in the air, her mood shifting instantly. “Bulletproof glass. I’m survivalizing his car.”

I crack up from her enthusiasm. “For real?”

She nods as we cruise along the FDR, the wind from the open top whipping past us, a lone gray cloud hanging low in the sky. “Can you believe it? I signed the deal yesterday, and he brought the car in this morning. I was at the shop early to meet him, and I’m starting the work on Monday. He’s a total zombie freak.”

That surprises the hell out of me. “Never would have pegged him for a zombie guy. He seemed pure Wall Street all the way.”

“I thought so, too, but then I noticed this,” she says, tapping her wrist. It’s bare and slender and pretty. And holy fuck, did I just actually think a woman’s wrist was sexy?

“What about his wrist?”

“His watch. It’s the kind zombie survivalists wear. It’s a Casio model that’s popular among that crowd.”

“No fucking kidding? I remember that watch. I figured he repped the company or something. Never occurred to me it meant he was a Walking Dead believer.”