Eight Perfect Hours by Lia Louis

Chapter Two

‘Uh, hi. Do – do you need any help?’

I stare at the man through the tiny crack in the passenger window, serious brown eyes, jet black lashes, squinting, as thick snowflakes fall.

‘Um. I – I was …’ My voice is thick, as if there are balled socks in my throat. ‘I was trying to––’

‘It’s just I saw you with the phone,’ he cuts in. He motions waving his arm in the air in a deranged sort of way, before pushing his hand back into his coat pocket.

‘Oh. I see.’ Brilliant. Just as I feared, other drivers did see my in-car meltdown. The tears, the swearing at nobody, the bloody microfibre cloth the colour of ravers’ knickers. ‘I had no signal,’ I say, clearing my throat, sitting straighter, as if to prove I am very stable indeed. ‘And now I have no battery. I was trying to get through to my mum.’ I hold up my lifeless phone. ‘I did manage to send a text though, before it died. Luckily.’

The man glances to his side at the road ahead, then back at me through the glass. ‘OK, well – if you need to borrow a phone or a charger cord – I guess, just shout.’ He’s American, this stranger. Very American. My brother Dilly would probably be able to correctly guess which state he’s from after hearing just a few words from his mouth. Dilly is obsessed with all things America. The food, the movies, the funky little mailboxes and how everyone eats cobbler (his words, not mine). He once even dated a man from Boston and spoke for a week in an American accent so obscure, that Ian next door sat us down and asked us very gently if he thought it was possible – and don’t be alarmed – that Dilly might’ve suffered an allergic reaction.

‘Ah, thanks. But it’s not the charger,’ I tell the American. ‘It’s the port. The actual erm – plug socket?’

‘Ah.’

‘Idiot brother broke it. Connecting up a laptop. Two days he was home for, borrowed the car, and that was it. Desperately needed to mix a demo apparently. He only went out for tomato puree.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s a super old car,’ I waffle on, as if this poor bloke cares, but I’m flustered, and short answers or silences beg for it, with me. I can’t help but want to fill up the space with words. Plus, he’s – well, there’s no arguing with science and nature. He’s really quite attractive, this man. Like … very. ‘The heater gets stuck on cold,’ I drone on. ‘And sometimes the car even locks us in and point-blank refuses to let us out again.’

‘I see,’ is all he says, but I see a tiny twitch of a smile through the misty glass as if he somehow knows the heater is only broken because I spilled a can of Tizer on the dial. ‘Well, if you need to charge it, I’m …’ He throws a glance over his shoulder to a parked black car beside mine, the interior light on inside, the door slightly ajar, ‘… just there.’

‘Oh.’ I nod. ‘OK. Thank you. But I’m sure we’ll be moving again in a few minutes.’

‘Optimistic,’ he says, as if to himself.

‘Yes. Well, I hope.’ And I do – I have to. Because Mum isn’t used to being home alone, without me, and if I think too hard about it, about being stuck here, and about this whole disastrous evening, I might cry again, and this man – this whole motorway, in fact – has seen quite enough. Plus, I’m not expected home until after ten, which means there is still an hour to get there as normal, with no drama, no awkward encounters with strangers and strange cars and Americans with funky mailboxes.

‘OK then.’ He straightens, gives an awkward nod.

‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘for offering,’ and a moment later, my window is firmly shut, and he’s back inside his car beside me on the frozen tarmac.