The Fake Out by Sharon M. Peterson

FORTY-NINE

Are you a coconut? ’Cause, damn, you shredded and sweet as hell.

—KARA R.

The storm started fifteen minutes after I left the café. The sky split open and rain poured in buckets, making it difficult for my windshield wipers to keep up. Downward zags of lightning lit up the world almost on top of each other.

The flat tire happened five minutes after that. One minute I was inching my way down the interstate and the next, the whomp-whomp-whomp could be heard even over the soundtrack of rolling thunder. With no choice, I took the nearest exit off the freeway, a desolate scrap of land at the corner of the freeway and a state highway.

White-knuckled, I pulled over into a patch of dirt, dropped my forehead to the steering wheel, and gave into the rage burning in my chest.

No matter what I did, how hard I tried, nothing ever went the way it should. Nothing.

Why? Why today? Why me? Most days, I tried not to ask the whys. If I thought too much about it, it made me so angry.

I was angry now and I was blessedly alone somewhere off the freeway in a broken car.

So, I did what any sensible person would do in this situation—I screamed.

A long, loud scream. There may have been beating on the steering wheel with my hands. Maybe, “How is this my life?” was yelled to no one in particular. I sat there in my car in the middle of nowhere with a flat tire in the pouring rain and screamed.

The last couple of days had been a lot. I deserved this scream. When my throat started to ache and the rage seemed to have dissipated enough so I could think clearly, I convinced myself it was time to change that tire.

About five seconds after digging the jack and spare from the trunk, the rain became a good old torrential downpour. The lightning ripped through the sky, one bolt on top of another. If anyone was going to get hit by lightning, it would probably be me. This was not a good idea. I knew I should wait it out rather than attempt to change that tire but I was desperate to get home, crawl into bed, and never speak to another living person again.

The patch of dirt I had parked on quickly became one giant mudpuddle. I slipped twice and caught myself before I went all the way down. After I managed to get the car jacked up, I removed three of the four lug nuts before I ran into a problem. The fourth one wouldn’t budge. No matter how much force I put behind it, nothing happened.

I kicked the tire—not a smart move—and climbed back into the car to consider my options. It quickly became apparent I only had one.

With a sigh, I picked up my phone and called.

When Chris’s truck pulled up, there was not a part of my body that wasn’t soaked through. I shivered from the temperature drop brought on by the storm but still, I stood in the rain, intent on removing that damn lug nut.

“Hey.” He reached for the tire iron in my hand, his hair already plastered to his head. “I got it.”

“I think I almost have it.” I pulled as hard as I could. It didn’t budge.

“Let me do it.”

“No,” I yelled, clutching the tire iron like it was my firstborn child and Chris was the goblin king. “I got this.”

I didn’t have it.

But Chris stood back and watched me struggle for a solid three minutes. I knew I’d been the one to call him. I knew I couldn’t get that lug nut off. But for some reason, I could not relinquish that tire iron to him. It was madness.

Maybe I was finally losing it.

One more huge effort on my part, but my foot slipped out from under me. I fell hard on my backside, covering half of me in a coat of slimy mud and the other half in splatters and spots like a very sad Dalmatian. Stunned, I froze.

A hand appeared in front of me, big and solid. “Come on.”

I wanted to smack it away. I didn’t want to need help. But I didn’t have any other option, did I? Finally, I let him pull me up.

“Why don’t you go get in my truck? You can dry off some. I’ll take care of this,” he said close to my ear so I could hear over the roar of the storm.

“I’m covered in mud.”

“It can be cleaned.”

I pointed at the tire. “I can get that. I know I can.”

He took a step back and put his hands on top of his head, eyes burning with intensity, his shirt plastered to his chest from the rain. “Please go to the truck and let me do this.”

“But—”

“Go sit in the damn truck,” he roared.

I gasped and held out the tire iron. “Okay. Fine. You don’t need to yell.”

“Now,” he growled.

I made my way to his truck, my shoes squelching in the mud with each step. There were two towels on the seat. I used one to sit on and the other to dry off as best I could. He’d left the engine running and the heat on full blast. Still, I was shivering when he finished and climbed in next to me.

“It’s done.” After pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, he reached into the back seat and pulled out a gym bag. From it came another towel and two dry t-shirts. He tossed me one. “Put that on.”

I was too cold to argue but I twisted around as best I could to try for a modicum of modesty. My poor I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie t-shirt was a sopping wet, muddy mess.

“Give it,” Chris said, his voice gruff, when I turned back. He stuffed it into a plastic bag and tossed it all in the back seat.

Staring out the front window, his hands wrapped around the top of the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white. Frustration radiated off him in waves.

“You have got to be the most exasperating person I have ever met. And you’ve met my sisters. Still, you beat them all out. You are confusing, stubborn…” His voice trailed off. “Why did you call me if you didn’t want my help?”

I rubbed at the tightness in my chest. My voice was very small. “I didn’t have anyone else to call. Mama can’t help. Iris wouldn’t know what to do. Ali doesn’t drive.” I turned to stare out the window and sniffled. “You’re the only one.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I shrugged and wiped my nose. “I’m used to it. It’s always been that way. I can depend on me. I guess I don’t know any other way.”

A beat of silence. “You could learn.”

“I don’t want to learn. I—I just want my life to go back to the way it was be-before you came along. Sure, it was a lot of work, and I was tired, but it was predictable. I had a plan and I followed it.” My breathing sped up and my nose stung, and my eyes felt hot and, oh, no, I was going to cry. “And then you… and I don’t know up from down most days… and it’s messing with my head and… and…”

One second I was sitting in my seat and the next I was hauled over to Chris’s lap like a rag doll. He was so freaking strong.

“What are you doing? I’m covered in mud.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered. He pushed my head down on his shoulder. “Be quiet.”

So, I was. Not because he told me so. Just because I needed to get myself together. I pushed my face into his chest.

“Are you crying?” he asked.

“No,” I sobbed, my voice muffled. “I’m fine.”

“Stubborn,” he muttered.

I didn’t have it in me to argue with him. So, I sat there, his arms around me and one hand idly playing with my hair. It felt nice, soothing, his body warm and strong and capable. I didn’t want to leave this strange and lovely moment of peace. And that was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

“You yelled at me,” I said, a little like a petulant three-year-old.

“You needed someone to yell at you.” His fingers had moved on from my hair to outline the shape of my ear.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t be the boss all the time.” His thumb was tracing my jaw now. Stupid opposable thumbs. Stupid, gentle, lovely opposable thumbs.

A shiver skittered down my back. “Being the boss is easier. I’m in charge of what happens.”

He grunted. “No one can be in charge of everything all the time. Life throws us curveballs.”

“Ugh. A sports analogy?”

With a chuckle, his hand moved back to my hair. “I apologize. Let me try again. Think about Millie. Her being born with a heart defect changed all our lives. There were times when we thought we might lose her, or she was in another surgery or she got sick with a regular old cold that turned into something worse. Those aren’t things we’re in charge of. We have to handle them and do the best we can. Not to throw out another sports analogy, but you gotta roll with the punches sometimes.”

“The punches hurt,” I muttered.

“No kidding.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“What was that? You need to speak up. Wait. Let me get my phone out and I can record it.”

I smacked him on the shoulder. “Thank you for helping me.”

His arms tightened and he pulled me closer still. A hint of calmness, of rightness curled in my chest, whispering this is where I should always be. It was terrifying how good it felt.

Softly, he kissed my temple.

We stayed like that until the rain stopped.