Page 25 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
Ro bites his lip to keep from laughing and shakes his head. “Nah. Ya know, it’s funny, I’ve never dated a girl who was real into cars.”
Having completed the transition from twenty-six-year-old woman to meddling auntie, Zola sucks her teeth. “Imagine that.”
I’m firing off all types of sisterly telepathy and universal girl-code death stares, but Zola’s on a mission.
“So, if your girlfriend isn’t into cars, how does she spend her time?”
Goodbye forever.
Ro’s eyes volley between us like he’s sorting out a riddle. “Idon’t have one,” he says, giving Zola exactly what she wants. “I’m single.”
“You don’t say,” Zola says, elbowing me.
Welp. I tried to get the car back, but it lives here now. Ro can keep it. He can sell it. He can set it on fire for all I care. I’m leaving and so is Zola.
“Zola, don’t you have somewhere to be?” I say, trying (and failing) to sound intimidating. Unfortunately, as far as Zola’s concerned, I no longer exist.
“So, do you work every weekend, Ro?”
“Not every weekend,” he says, playing along. “If I’m not picking girls up on the side of the road and delivering them to neighborhood sports bars, I’m usually off Fridays.”
“Wait!” Zola yells. “You’rethe guy who saved Kaia yesterday?”
I sneer. “Okay, I wouldn’t exactly saysaved.”
Ro laughs. “Nah. Kaia doesn’t strike me as someone who needs saving. Just a ride every now and then. And a charge wouldn’t hurt. But yeah, that was me.”
Zola’s wild eyes land on me, and I’m terrified.
“Oh my god, Kai, I just had the best idea! Maybe Ro’s available for our little project.”
“Zola,” I say, desperate to stop her. Just once I’d like to leave this guy’s presence with my dignity somewhat intact.
“He could be my first pick for—”
“Stop,” I yell. “He doesn’t need to hear all this, he’s just the tow truck guy.”
The carelessness of my words stuns us all into a silence that goes on a beat too long. As if not speaking might give someone a chance to re-pin the live grenade I’ve just hurled.
“Okay,” Zo says too calmly. Blinking away her dreams of future family dinners with the guy beside me. The one whocurrently looks like he’s been punched in the gut while his guard was down.
“I’ll go, and just see you back at home,” she continues. “Ro, it was really nice to meet you. And your place is great, by the way. I need to get the name of the artist you used.”
Ro nods once, crossing his arms tightly over his chest when he says, “That would be me.”
It’s such a departure from how he’d looked and sounded talking about his work before. And it’s my fault.
Zola’s eyebrows lift at the news, but she leaves it alone. “Well, thanks again for all your help.”
“It’s all good,” he tells her, without a hint of his earlier levity. “That’s my job.” And when he continues, he’s still speaking to Zola, but his gaze and his words are directed at me—daggers hurling toward their target. “I’m just the tow truck guy.”
Shit.
—
It wasn’t that bad. My comment was a fact, not a judgment. He probably didn’t even think anything of it. Ro’s just silently running my card like he does for every customer. Because that’s what I am to him—a customer. An elitist prick of a customer, but a customer just the same. I came to pick up my car, and that’s what I’m doing. In twenty minutes, he’ll forget I even exist.
Don’t make it a thing. Just because you overthink everything doesn’t mean he does—he’s a guy.
