by Gigi Blume
“That was my rental car,” Dog Man spat. “You can’t just cut in line and steal people’s rental cars.”
“Cut in line? Are you in fifth grade? Anyway, I’m not stealing your rental. See that man?” I inclined my head to a rather large man with a comb over who was next in line. “For the record, I’m stealing his rental because Sunshine Lady over there wasn’t giving you any breaks.”
“I almost had her.”
“No you didn’t.”
The clerk called me over to finish the transaction so I could go over the rental agreement on a touch screen. Dog Man stormed next to me while I happily checked off all the boxes.
“If it wasn’t for Reeses you’d be in the back of the line, princess.”
“If it wasn’t for Reeses, my phone would be working. So I think we’re even.”
I tapped away at the screen. Rental insurance? Check.
“May I see your ID sir?” the clerk asked Dog Man.
“What? Why?”
She huffed and did that eye roll thing she was so good at. I wondered if that was a job requirement. “If you plan on doing any of the driving, I’ll need your ID.”
“Of course he’s driving,” I said. “I hate to drive.” That wasn’t exactly true. I loved the freedom of driving where I wanted to go when I wanted. What I couldn’t stand was being chauffeured around in a town car when I was in high school. All my friends had sweet rides—convertibles and stuff—but my famous brother had me on a short leash. It was for my protection but still…
“I err… yeah.” Dog Man set Reeses back in the case and slipped his license out of his wallet. Sunshine Lady volleyed her eyes between us and chuckled.
“What?” Dog Man and I said in unison.
“You fight like an old married couple,” she said, running Dog Man’s ID through the reader. “I can always tell the ones who are gonna make it.”
We must have had the most ridiculous expressions on our faces as she handed Dog Man his ID. Her tone was almost robotic as she said, “Congratulations on your engagement.”
Yep. Weirdest day ever.
4
Wyatt
That was a weird turn of events. Not twenty-four hours since I got an exclusive leak from my contact in Los Angeles and next thing I know I was on a plane to chase the story. This could be my big break if I could just get there on time. Now I was sharing a ride in rural Iowa with the prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Spunky and infuriating, yes. But pretty. A no make-up kind of beautiful with a natural pink to her cheeks and honey locks framing her face. And I had no business looking at her like that. Plus that engagement ring on her finger cost more than I’d make in a year. Definitely too much trouble.
She spent the first twenty minutes looking out the window without uttering a word to me. The silence drove me crazy. So I cranked the radio. She immediately shut it off and crossed her arms.
Alrighty then.
When she finally spoke, I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed she broke the silence.
“I need a burner phone.”
“Okay. Next stop, I guess.”
“Good.”
I continued down the highway, careful to keep my eyes on the road but every few minutes I stole a glance her way—just to see the back of her head, I supposed. Reeses was happy at least, fast asleep on her feet.
“You can use my phone if you want to call whoever was supposed to pick you up at LAX,” I offered.
She kind of bristled at the suggestion, as if my cheap Metro phone wasn’t good enough for her.
“Nope. It can wait.”
More silence. More staring out the window. I wanted to point out to her the weather wasn’t my fault—even though she acted like the planes were all grounded because of some evil plan I’d devised. But I settled for civility, reminding myself it was her who got us this car and I’d have to pay her back somehow.
“I suppose I should probably thank you for your unorthodox improv skills back there.”
She looked at me for a second and then turned back to the window.
“So…Reeses and I thank you. I’ll pay my share of the rental once I get paid from my gig in L.A. And for your phone, too.”
That caught her attention. “Gig? You an actor?’
“No way.”
“Musician?”
“Nope.” I was a little embarrassed to say, so I went with vague. “I’m a writer.”
She snorted. “Screenwriter.”
I wished. But no.
“Actually, I’m a journalist. Working on a big story.”
“Oh? What’s the story?”
“That’s top secret, I’m afraid.”
She repressed a grin. “Okay, Clark Kent.”
“Clark Kent, huh?”
“Yeah. You’ve got that Clark Kent vibe going on. But without the glasses.” She swished her fingers around in little circles in my direction.
“So…Superman, then.” I wagged my brows.
“Ha. Dream on. Not the looks. Just the fumbling nerdy part.”
I had to agree with her on that. But I owned it, so it was okay.
“So do you have a name?” she asked, shifting in her seat to face me better. “Or do I have to continue calling you Dog Man?”
I almost spit out my morning coffee, which would have been really something since I’d consumed that hours ago.
“Dog Man? Hmmm. That’s kind of charming. I think I’ll stick with that.”
She huffed. “Fine.”
I half-laughed. Daddy’s little princess liked to pout when she didn’t get her way. I considered for a brief moment to let her call me Dog Man for the rest of the ride. But I realized the flaw in that. Besides, I didn’t know her name either and calling her princess wasn’t going to go over well. I was too busy being angry and dazzled by her at the airport to notice when she signed her name. And the rental agreement was in the glove box. What was it about this girl?
“I’m just kidding,” I said. “I’m Wyatt.”
She raked her eyes over me in open assessment.
“Hmmm. I guess.”
“You guess? It’s not like I’m giving you a fake name.”
“You could be.”
My fingers gripped tighter around the steering wheel. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a reporter on a top-secret assignment.”
Cute. Wild imagination. Maybe a tad delusional.
“You can check the rental agreement in the glove box.”
“Nah. I’m good.”
“All right. Believe me, don’t believe me. I don’t care.” Then why did it bother me so much? “What’s your name, then?”
She hesitated. Maybe thinking up something outrageous. “Georgia.”
“Okay, Georgia. When we make the next stop we’ll exchange IDs and see which one of us is lying.”
“NO!” she blurted.
Interesting.
“I mean...I don’t like my picture,” she quickly added.
So she was vain too. Funny, I didn’t have her pegged as vain with that fresh, glowing face. Spoilt and entitled, sure. But not vain. A ping a disappointment shot through me. And why did it matter anyway?
A length of silence descended upon us while we drove down that rural road for the next couple of hours. There was nothing but snow for miles in every direction. I checked the indicators. Almost a full tank of gas. Thank goodness for tiny cars.
We were both flustered and bristled when they’d pulled the Chevy Spark around for us. Georgia’s snubby reaction to the tiny economy car was priceless. She stormed into the passenger seat and slammed the door. I was more than happy to ‘not so gently’ toss her carry-on in the trunk and I sped off without inputting a destination in the GPS. I followed the signs Southbound, just wanting to literally get out of Dodge. I figured we could find a more suitable place down the road to go over our travel plans from here on out. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing but the occasional farmhouse. I was fairly certain we were on a ma
jor highway.
Hungry for some snacks, I reached behind my seat for my backpack, only swerving slightly. She flipped out.
“Oh my—sheesh! Are you trying to kill us?”
“Calm down, woman. It was your idea to make me drive.”
“Yeah, because I’ve never driven on icy roads. I thought you’d know how not to plow into a snow bank.”
Reeses raised his little head and perked up his ears. He volleyed his face toward me, then Georgia, then back to me again and barked once.
“See?” said Georgia. “Your dog agrees with me.”
“Nah. He has to do his business. That’s his ‘I need to pee’ bark.”
I eventually found a turnout—a spot just off the road where it would be safe to let Reeses out so he could roam around. It was a scenic spot overlooking a lake, now frozen over with ice and snow. A few lonely picnic benches caked in several inches of snow sat just beyond the parking lot. This lakeside rest area was a scenic place even covered in white. I could imagine how beautiful it would be in warmer weather.
“Just open your door and he’ll jump out,” I said. “I’m going to take some pictures.”
I scooped up my backpack and slipped outside into the frigid air. The parking lot was icy and a little slippery under my Converse All Stars.
I heard Georgia shriek in response to the cold before snapping the door shut after letting Reeses out. My little dog hopped along, bouncy as ever, bolting from one spot to another to leave his mark. Animal kingdom, Reeses the dog was here. He was in his element. Really, anywhere he could exert some of that pent-up energy was his element.
I reached in my bag for my most prized possession—the Nikon 8008s I scrimped and saved for and finally purchased when Costco had a sale. It was the only thing of value I owned. I snapped a few shots of the snowy scenery of the frozen lake, the frosty trees. Beautiful. I could sell these photos on Shutterstock. Put my associates degree in photography to good use.
Fifteen minutes passed by. I had some great images. Reeses was still merrily peeing on everything in sight. I heard Georgia call out.
“Can you believe this car has crank windows? Crank!”
“Well roll it back up before you freeze,” I cried back.
“I’m already frozen in here without the heater. Can you hurry it up?” She’d put her knit cap back on, strands of hair poking out from underneath. Half her upper body leaned outside the window like Reeses sometimes did on summer truck rides back home. With the fluffy lining of her hooded coat and her gloved hands, she looked just as snuggly and soft.
Wrong thoughts. Bad thoughts. Shove those down.
I replaced my camera’s lens cap and carefully nuzzled it in my bag. Just a little road trip, nothing more. Then I’ll never see her again. I repeated those words, keeping my head down as I crunched through the snow towards the car. Towards that girl. That maddeningly beautiful girl.
Then she screeched. I threw my head up to see that tiny car sliding on the ice, Georgia halfway out the window. I hurried to get closer but once I set foot on the pavement my shoes slid from under me. I scrambled to get up.
“Pull the emergency brake,” I screamed. The car was still on the move, gliding dangerously close to the lake’s edge.
“The brake is on.” She was opening her door.
“Wait!” I knew how this would go down. I wrote an article on it for an online magazine once. They paid me ten bucks. “The door will shut on you if you don’t open it wide.”
“What?”
“And jump at a forty-five degree angle.”
By this time she was perched to jump. “You seriously expect me to do math right now?”
The car was still sliding. I don’t know what powers suddenly came over me, but I figure skated on over to her. Scott Hamilton, eat your heart out. The car’s front wheels hit the icy lake. Would it hold the weight?
“Jump!”
I’d never seen someone catch so much air. That woman soared through the air like one of those flying squirrels. I got to her just in time to break her fall and we both plummeted to the cold pavement. For a long moment all we could do was breathe. Heavy, spent breaths. Happy to be alive breaths. Faces intoxicatingly close to one another breaths. Georgia’s hat was askew which let long whips of hair fall in a curtain around us. Her pillowy lips were right there, just an inch or two from touching mine. I may have lost my hearing for a few seconds. The only sound registering was the thumping of my heart. She smelled of strawberries. Probably her shampoo or body wash. Strawberries in the dead of winter. I’d gone to heaven.
I didn’t realize my arms were wound around her until she moved to lift her body off mine. A fierce shade of pink flushed over her cheeks and I had a strong suspicion it wasn’t due to the cold.
5
Georgia
I couldn’t decide if I was mortified, grateful, or all fluttery. Wyatt looked ridiculous slipping and sliding along the icy pavement in those insensible shoes, arms flapping in the wind. Next thing I knew he was under me, a soft barrier from the hard ground. It’s like he was kind of heroic but in a fumbling, unlikely sort of way. This close to him, I was arrested by the smallest details. The gold flecks in his eyes, the lush, thick lashes any woman would envy, the small dimple on his left cheek.
“Ummm.” It was awkward. Really awkward. And I hoped he didn’t have a broken tailbone or something. “Are you okay?”
He blinked and sucked in a breath. “I think.”
A cold dog nose got into my face, sniffing and licking, awakening me from the temporary insanity in which I almost found Wyatt attractive. I pushed off from his chest and rolled over, sitting up to look at the car.
“It stopped sliding. Do you think we could back it up?”
Wyatt groaned as he sat up. That tailbone was going to bruise for sure. “Oh.” He sounded surprised and hopeful. “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
Now, I’m not one to put too much stock into such things, but when a chronically unlucky person tempts fate, bad things happen. I was beginning to think bad luck followed Wyatt everywhere he went. For as soon as he uttered those words, the ice cracked and the front end of our little rental car sank into the lake.
We stared at it. Our jaws hung down. There were no words. This could not be happening. A fierce heat spread out from my chest and reached the top of my head, building pressure with each pulse beat in my temples. I felt my eyes narrow into precisely pointy death rays and I turned my head ever so slowly to direct them at the walking disaster sitting next to me. I would have remained in that position indefinitely on the off chance those death rays might actually work—if I could only concentrate enough. But my butt was cold and wet, not to mention the car sinking in the lake, and I wasn’t interested in concentrating on Wyatt more than I ought.
Two hours later we were warming ourselves in a greasy spoon down the street from the auto shop where the rental car was towed. Boonybushes, Nebraska. Population: eleven.
I did not kill Wyatt. I only made him wish I had.
The tow truck driver (whose name escaped me) owned and ran the auto shop, was the only mechanic, and sold his wife’s homemade jams in the front office. One could say he was a true renaissance man.
“How long did he say it would be?” I asked Wyatt as I bit into a fry. I just wanted to get back on the road and out of that one-horse town.
“I dunno. But now would be a good time to call whoever’s going to pick you up at LAX.” He slid his phone across the table. It was completely scuffed up, the screen so cracked it belonged on the backside of a plumber. I picked it up and wondered at the oddity of this guy. Did he make a habit of walking under ladders and crossing by black cats? I felt like saying, “You see Wyatt? This is why we can’t have nice things.”
I ran my finger over the screen, remembering my shattered phone. That was the least of my worries at the moment. It seemed so long ago. Funny how drastically my day had gone bonkers.
The home screen was locked.
“What’s your
password?”
Wyatt hesitated. He’d just taken a bite from his burger. Barbecue sauce dripped down his hands. He held up a finger while he swallowed.
“C.”
I pressed C.
“A.”
“Okay.” I pressed the A.
“L-L.”
“Gotcha.”
“M.” A twinkle in his eyes. “O-M.”
I punched it in. “Call Mom? That’s some password.”
He took a sip of Coke. “A gentle reminder. I let the day get away from me sometimes.”
“Have you called her yet today?” I tapped on the dial pad.
He nodded, stealing one of my fries. “Did this morning.”
“Hey!” I slapped his hand. “I’m rationing those.”
“You can have one of my onion rings,” he said sheepishly.
I stared at the phone. Crack in the screen. Crack in the universe. Prisoner Zero has escaped.
“Oh no!”
“It’s just a French fry.” He held out an onion ring for me.
“No, that’s not it.” I snatched the onion ring and set in on my plate to enjoy later. “I don’t have any numbers memorized. How am I going to call my brother?”
Wyatt twisted his features in thought. “Online white pages?”
“Is that a thing?”
He shrugged.
“Anyway, he’d be unlisted.” If it were that easy to find Will Darcy’s phone number, he’d get calls from fan girls nonstop.
“Is he on Facebook or something?” Wyatt suggested. “You could direct message him.”
My brother’s idea of social media was to let someone run an official fan page. However...
“I know what I can do.” I tapped away to the search engine and found The Gardiner Theatre’s website. I could leave a message for Stella. She was a close family friend. She could get me through to my brother. It was the only thing I could think of. I was surprised to find the messaging system had a staff directory and was patched right through to Stella’s office. Interesting how she was probably more famous than my brother yet so accessible. Her chirpy British accent greeted me on her recorded voicemail.