Page 261 of A Taste of Vanilla

I nod. “Okay.” My heart beats faster.

“I mean, not the car. Not me, not any of it.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” she asks, her head tilting.

My lips press together. “No,” I say honestly. “Not really. But I understand enough to know that I shouldn’t do anything you don’t ask me to do.”

She stares at me again and then nods. “Tow truck.”

Relief floods through me. “Okay.”

“And it’s not going back to Baltimore.”

I keep my face still despite being ecstatic at the news. “Where would you like it to go?”

She looks at her car.

For the first time since I arrived, the anger drains enough for her grief to show clearly.

“Junkyard. Mechanic. Whatever people do with cars that suck.”

I bite my cheek. “Okay.”

She wipes her cheek. “I’m not driving her back.”

“No, you’re not.” It’s the one thing I’ll put my foot down on.

“She has a really bad attitude.” Halston pouts.

“She really does.”

“I want her gone.” The words are quiet.

For a second, we stand in the rain, her car in front of us. And while it’s easy to hate it, that old, unreliable piece of metal carried her away from Grant.

Away from me, too.

“I’ll call the tow,” I say.

She nods. “Please.”

I take out my phone and call. I keep it brief, my phone slippery against my ear. Roadside. Dead vehicle. Tow it to a nearby salvage yard if possible. Absolutely not back to Baltimore. Yes, the owner is present; yes, we can wait.

When I hang up, I tell her, “Forty-five minutes.”

She closes her eyes. “Of course.”

“Do you want to wait in the truck?”

Her eyes open.

“You can sit alone. I can wait outside or in your car, if you want. The heat works, and there’s water, gummy worms, a blanket, and a charger.”

Her mouth trembles. “Roadside grief catering.”

I smile.