Page 14 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
I’m tapping out a firmer no, when Liv says a few of my favoriteshut-me-upwords:
Liv:I’ll buy all your drinks.
Talk about burying the lead.
Me:On my way.
—
It might’ve been my responsibility to notice the charge on Mom’s car was in the red before ducking onto these backstreets to avoid rush-hour traffic, but I didn’t. And what good is that kind of thinking anyway, now that I’ve already lurched to a dead stop on the road’s nonexistent shoulder.
I allow myself exactly five seconds to curse everyone and everything before flipping on my hazards and assessing my surroundings.
Minutes ago, I would’ve described the lush Connecticut greenery overtaking this two-lane road against a backdrop of a true-blue evening sky as picturesque. But in this current predicament, my brain is doing its fun little party trick—mentally cataloging all the cold cases I’ve seen that begin under circumstances similar to my own. Overgrown woods aren’t quite aspicturesqueif your lifeless body is being hurled into them.
Cell service out here has always been spotty at best, but even the universe must realize that particular joke is played out. On my third attempt, the search results for local tow companies magically load.
Before my finger can tapcallon the first link, something big pulls up behind me. Parked, bumper to bumper—so close I can’t make out what it is. Probably one of those white conversion vans with “candy” and “puppies” inside.
Mom better be kind when choosing the photo to run with the story of my disappearance. And Zola already knows to wipe my search histories clean.
A knock at the window interrupts my panic. The glass is almost completely filled by the nondescript gray fabric covering this guy’s broad abdomen—easily the width of two of mine. So much for overpowering him.
I take my eyes off the window just long enough to unlock my phone and debate whether I should use this last opportunity to call the police or Zola. Something tells me the latter might actually be the smarter choice. I’ve seenTaken,and Liam Neeson’s got nothing on Zo.
The guy raps on my window again, his face replacing his body in my view. The sight of it shakes me to my very core.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Of course, whenMr. Save the Day (Again) Samaritanisn’t enforcing parking ordinances at local grocery stores, he’s some sort of F-150-driving forest ranger. Andof coursehe is here with me now.
“Hey,” he yells. Even the glass muffling his voice doesn’t hide his amusement. “Need some help?”
Where’s the guy in the ski mask when you want him?
“No thanks,” I say, trying to remember what are words. “I’m good.”
I give a lame little wave when I say the last part, to really sell it.
He’s not convinced. “Cars fly down this road. Let me at least get you off the bend.”
I hold up my phone and say, “My boyfriend’s actually on his way now.” Impressed by how effortlessly I deliver the lie.
“Oh, cool,” he says. “I’ll wait in my truck till he gets here. Make sure you’re good.”
I don’t take my eyes off his truck in the rearview as I call for a tow. I only pray they won’t hang up on me when I ask if, in addition to the auto service, they’re also willing to fake date me for a few minutes.
They answer on the first ring. “Pops Towing.”
“Hey, my car just died. Is there somebody who can meet me out in Westport?”
“Yeah. I’m actually out that way now,” he says, like the absolute hero he is. “What are your cross streets?”
“I’m at Greens Farm and…” I scan the street, embarrassed that I have absolutely no clue.
“Maple?” he suggests. “Westbound?”
“Maybe…yeah?” I offer, weakly.
