Page 4 of Truck Me

The night I met Sierra, we were at an after party for a conference we were both attending. She’s a stylist too, though she doesn’t take it as seriously as me. I had just moved to Chicago to start my career and my southern Ohio accent was still strong. When she asked me where I was from, I told her Beaver, thinking nothing of it. She laughed so hard she almost fell off her seat. When she calmed down enough to speak, her first words were, Oh yeah? Me too.

I had no clue what she meant. Sadly, I was nineteen when I learned that Beaver was a nickname for a woman’s vagina. I’ve never been able to tell anyone where I’m from again.

Sierra

Meet any hot men to help you get over Mr. Douche yet?

Charlotte

Nope. No hot men in sight. Just me, a ten-year-old little girl, and my parents.

Sierra

Have you gone out and looked?

Charlotte

Gone out where? I’m in a village that banned alcohol. Where am I supposed to go?

Sierra

I can’t believe you grew up in a dry German village. That just seems wrong. Are there no cities nearby?

Charlotte

Well, yes. But that reeks of effort. I’m still mending my broken heart.

Sierra

Your heart isn’t broken. It’s your pride that he smashed.

Charlotte

Don’t be an asshole.

Sierra

But you love my asshole ways.

Before I can respond, the door to the laundromat opens, bringing with it a gust of cold air. It’s been in the single digits all week and shows no signs of warming up.

Rayne squeals like she just won a prize. She jumps up from the seat next to me—her movie forgotten—and runs to the bearded man standing in the doorway.

“Garret! I hoped it’d be you that came.” Rayne bounces on her feet before she wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him tight.

A smile tugs at his lips, and he hugs her back. That is, until he looks in my direction. His expression quickly morphs into something closer to disgust than joy.

Do I look that bad?

I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to calm the fizzy strays, but I’m not sure it does any good. Glancing down at my outfit, I determine I look stylish, yet appropriate for country living. Well, everything except my Jimmy Choos. But classy heels are appropriate anywhere. That’s a life rule I refuse to let go no matter where I live.

Otherwise, I’m in my favorite dark jeans and a deep purple sweater that compliments my skin tone and dark hair. If it weren’t for my frizzy hair and the dark circles under my eyes, I’d argue I look presentable, if not bordering on good.

When I look up, he’s still eyeing me like I’m his worst enemy. What did I ever do to him?

It’s a damn shame too.

Garret Mutter just might be the sexist man in all of southern Ohio. All the Mutter men are hot, but there’s always been something about Garret that drew me in. Maybe it’s the whole grumpy, wounded man thing that screams please fix me. The last thing I need is another man who needs fixing. Been there. Failed at that.

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