Page 2 of Gifts

I sigh and look back to my eyebrows to continue tweezing for my early-bird date.

Chapter 1

Pothole Season

Keelie

“I have roadside service. They’re on their way. Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

I look up from my phone where I’m standing in the ditch with my heels sinking into the dirt. They’re no Manolo’s, but I did drop a few hundred bucks on them back when I was a lobbyist. That was a lifetime ago, but they’re timeless and fancier than what I wear to work these days. When my bossy older sister, Stephie, came over this afternoon, she dug through my closet and unearthed them. I certainly didn’t plan on wading through a ditch on my first date in forever. I’m not sure it can get any worse.

Plus, I hit my head on the passenger window when sweater-vest man swerved from his tire blowing out. I feel a bump forming on my temple. I should’ve known this whole thing was a bad idea.

If I weren’t in heels, a white blouse, and my favorite jeans, I’d change the flat myself. I don’t know how to change a tire, but YouTube has become my right-hand man. I’ve learned how to do all kinds of things from that site. When one lives by herself in a ninety-two-year-old farmhouse with two kids, twelve goats, three barn cats, two dogs, and a donkey—there’s a lot of shit to fix. I’m becoming a rock star at you-tubing life’s problems away. It’s how I roll these days.

And what kind of man doesn’t know how to change a tire?

Stan, of course. He’s the kind of man who picks up his date at five o’clock instead of making reservations.

Like the idiot Stan’s turning out to be, he’s standing in front of his car that’s barely pulled to the side of the two-lane road we’re stranded on. There are no shoulders out here in the country—where the road ends, the ditch begins. I’m not standing in front of his car with others whizzing past us faster than necessary. I have two kids at home who need me. Getting run over on the way home from the worst date ever will not be the way I go. I’ll stand in the ditch all night if I have to.

I look up from my phone and don’t even try to smile. I quit fake-smiling around a quarter ‘til seven when Stan asked if I wanted to go back to his place for a drink and to watch Netflix.

I mean, really. It’s been dog-years since I’ve graced the dating scene, but I know what watching Netflix means—not to mention it’s ridiculously cliché.

That’s when I told him the truth. I don’t watch TV—Netflix or otherwise—and I especially wouldn’t be watching it with him.

Tired of faking it, I asked him to take me home. We were on our way when he hit a hole in the road, blew out a tire, and swerved to hell and back. That was when I bumped my head on the door window.

“I’m good.”

I toss my phone back into my purse and search around for some ibuprofen. For the first time in eons, I’m grateful I didn’t have time to clean out my purse because I have a half-bottle of Gatorade Knox asked me to hold the other day. It might be warm and days old, but I don’t give a shit. I take a swig and down the pills because I know my head will start throbbing any minute. I yank my purse strap back up my shoulder and cross my arms to keep warm. “You shouldn’t stand up there. Someone could hit your car and plow right over you.”

He shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his too-small khakis that he paired with a too-small sweater vest, worn over an odd-colored brown dress shirt. His loafers look like they cost as much as my heels, so I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t want to attempt changing a tire, though, I do wonder if he even knows how to. I’m sure he’s lost all interest in wooing me—even if his idea of wooing is weird and unnatural—because he raises an eyebrow when he responds, “I’m not standing in the mud.”

I sigh and hope for his sake, and mine, that he doesn’t get plowed over. That would suck for him and I don’t want to see it. As boring and uppity as he is, I’d like to see us both go home tonight, albeit in opposite directions.

“How long did they say it would take?” I ask.

“It could be an hour-and-a-half.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts scrolling across the screen.

Fucking great. I must be in first-date detention, being punished for not trying harder. But in my defense, I didn’t want to go in the first place.

No problem. I’ll just change the fucking tire myself.

I’m two minutes into my how-to-change-a-tire video when a huge truck flies by.

I look back to my phone, but hit pause when I see brake lights, then reverse lights. Backing toward us, it settles to a stop in front of Stan’s Buick. I can’t see the driver from where I’m standing, but I hear a door slam right before a deep voice rings through the dusk. “You need some help?”

I maneuver my way through the ditch to get closer when I hear Stan, the dumbass, reject his offer. “I’ve got someone coming. Thanks, though.”

“Is it just a flat or did you do other damage?” the voice asks.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a flat, but we’re good. I have insurance for things like this.” Damn him. He must want me to stand in this ditch all night.

“If you’re sure—” the voice starts, but I interrupt.

“No! Wait.” I try to skip in my heels through the dormant grass and weeds to where the voice can see me. “Yes-yes. We need help. I was just looking up how to change a tire on the internet. I bet we can figure it out together. Then I won’t have to stand here all night. It’s getting cold.”

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