Page 3 of Never Been Matched
“Thank you!” I grab my overnight bag and purse and then scurry through the growing snow drifts and clamber up into the truck.
After about ten minutes warming my hands and half-listening to a muted podcast about gourds, I think, the driver’s door swings open. The driver climbs in, bringing a rush of frozen air with him.
He flips the hood of his jacket off his head, revealing a shock of dark hair under the dashboard lights and a cherubic face.
Holy shit.
“Are you old enough to drive?”
He buckles up. “I got my license last year.”
I’m scared to ask. “When, exactly, last year?”
“December.” He puts the truck in gear and we roll slowly down the road.
It’s February.
December was two months ago. This is it. I’m going to die at the hands of a child in the middle of nowhere. My epitaph will read: Here lies Vivien Hart. She was famous once, and kind of an idiot always.
The engine rumbles louder as the truck picks up speed.
“You’re . . .” A literal infant. “So young.”
“Yeah. But I’ve been driving for years, since I was a kid.”
Dude, you’re still a kid. “You drove as a kid?”
“My parents own a farm, and I work there too.”
I stare at his baby-face profile. Is that an explanation?
He eases into a turn and continues. “But I had to get another job as soon as I could to save up for my Cucurbita farm.”
I grip the arm rest. “Cucumber farm?”
“No, Cucurbita. It’s the technical term for fruits in the gourd family, like squash, pumpkins, and nonedible gourds.”
“Ah.” The podcast, still playing at low volume in the background, is making more sense.
“I have the perfect name for it already picked out. For a Gourd Time, Call Noah.” We hit a straightaway and he accelerates.
My grip tightens. “Wow. So, you’re Noah, then?”
“Yep. And you’re Vivien.”
I withhold a groan. It’s been a while since I’ve been willfully seen in public. I almost forgot how awkward and awful it is to be recognized. There’s an inherent pressure to perform for people, for fans. It’s like acting, but worse, the pressure to be someone I’m not just in case this interaction ends up on Reddit, or they inevitably want something from me. Most of the time they want to vent about the final season and if I’m upset that it sucked.
It didn’t, but there’s just no pleasing people.
I hold back my inner irritation. “Yes, that’s me, I’m Vivien Hart. I didn’t think I would be familiar to you. The Other Side of Ordinary was so long ago, and you’re so young.” Probably wasn’t even born when it first came out.
His glance in my direction is puzzled, brows drawn. “The Other Side of Ordinary? Isn’t that an old TV show? I think my mom told me about it. It’s about kids that are superheroes or something, right?”
What? “Wait. How did you know my name?”
“It was on the work order.”
Embarrassment fills me to the brim and runs over, spilling heat down my face. “Oh, you’re right. It’s an old TV show.” I clear my throat. This is what happens when you don’t have small talk with strangers for two years. You end up sounding like you have a room-temperature IQ. “Tell me more about your gourd farm.”
