Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Right. I’ll, ah, call my friend who owns a tow truck. Have it taken to a garage so it can be assessed.”
“That sounds great. Do I need to go with it?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll send you the details so you can fill out your accident report online.”
“What’s your number?” I ask. “I’ll text you so you have mine.”
He rattles off the digits.
“Thank you so much, Paul.”
He blushes. “No big deal. People have accidents here all the time. They don’t leave enough room in parking lots for people to maneuver anymore.”
“They really don’t. Thank you so much for understanding.” I can feel the other man’s eyes on me. But I refuse to spare him so much as a glance. Nope. Not happening. “I’ll be at the bar in the restaurant on the corner if you need me.”
“You’ll be in the... Okay,” Paul is saying.
But I’m already gone.
3
The restaurant on the corner has a cool modern bar. White walls, tan leather seats, and lots of hanging plants. I like the way sunlight streams in through the skylights, making the inside feel like you’re outside. Our work events are often held here. Birthdays and send-offs, et cetera. The dinner crowd has yet to arrive. It is mostly those wanting to hang somewhere on a Saturday afternoon.
I take a seat at the end of the bar on a stool and stare into eternity for a moment. Of course, eternity for me is apparently up next week. My brain is an even bigger disaster than before. But everything will be all right. I just need to sit quietly and calm down. Sort this whole situation out within the quiet confines of my skull and decide what to do.
“Can I get you something?” asks the bartender, an older woman with short cropped gray hair and one of those nose piercings. The kind that hangs through the middle part. “Hello?”
“Sorry. I’ll, um... You know what? I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”
She nods and gets busy mixing the vodka, tomato juice, and spices.
I ignore the man who slides onto the stool next to me. I ignore him with all my heart and soul and then some.
“Did you hit your head?” he asks. “You know, when you crashed the car?”
Funny how that idea keeps coming up. “No.”
Turns out he’s hard to ignore. The cap and sunglasses are gone. He sits facing me with his back to the rest of the world. “I’ve had some odd reactions to people recognizing me. But that was particularly unusual back there.”
“Particularly unusual,” I repeat. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
“Fucking weird?”
I nod. “Better.”
“You actually ran away from me,” he says with something close to wonder. “After almost hitting my car and telling me I wasn’t me.”
“Yep. That about sums it up.”
He stares at me for a long moment while I ignore him some more. Any hope of him losing interest and going away, however, is dashed when he asks, “So what’s the story?”
“Hmm?”
“You said something about a woman being right. What did you mean?”
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
The bartender places a napkin along with the impressive red concoction in front of me. It is embellished with a stick of celery and a cocktail pick loaded with an olive, a pickled onion, a gherkin, and a cube of cheese. How great is a cocktail that comes with its own snacks?
“Thank you,” I say. “It looks amazing.”
“I’m not staying,” the stranger tells the waiting bartender when she asks if he’d like a drink.
“Then you should go.” I take a sip of the drink and holy shit. “Whoa. That’s spicy.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “You’ve never had a Bloody Mary before?”
“No. But I always wanted to try one. No time like the present.” Then it occurs to me. I slap the palm of my hand on the wooden bar top. “Septum. It’s called a septum piercing. Gah. I hate it when I get all worked up and lose words. It is so annoying.”
His mouth opens slightly but nothing comes out. The way he’s watching me...it’s actually closer to amusement than wonder now. His scales of judgment have definitely tipped in the wrong direction when it comes to me.
Some of the paprika dusted around the rim of the glass has fallen on me. I carefully brush off my fifties-style cream-colored short-sleeve top and navy pants. “I bet you’re perfect and never get frazzled or forget anything.”
His gaze jumps from my breasts to my face. So busted. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says.
“Whatever. You were leaving.”
“I was actually waiting for you to tell me your story.”
“I never agreed to that. Who says there even is a story?”
“Oh, there’s definitely a story,” he says. “I can feel it. And wouldn’t it be great to get it off your chest?”
“Your concern for my chest has been noted. Thanks.”