Page 3 of The Spark Between Us

“I can’t believe you’re gonna live in a cow town for six months. Do you even need a car there, or will you ride a pony to work?”

“It’s not a cow town. If you ever bothered to detour from your tiny world on your state-of-the-art tech campus, you’d see it’s a nice place. I heard they make wine here. Tourists come.”

“Awesome. You’ll be cow tipping in the grapevines like a local in no time.”

“Small minded.”

“Giddyup. Maybe you’ll meet a cowboy.”

“Not why I’m here,” I sang, reminding her of what she already knew.

“Well, hopefully some burly cattle rustler out there will change your mind.” Laughing at her hilarity, she said goodbye and hang up.

Turning on a side street took me past a bookstore, a bakery, and another wine shop. Okay! Pretty much all I needed was right here in the few blocks that made up the business district.

The roommate situation remained the only unknown, but I wasn’t too worried.

Finn had lined up a spare room at the home of a guy he knew, Braden Michaels. They’d been best friends in high school and had stayed pretty close. Since he and Finn were four years older, my memories of Braden were spotty, other than him being a dark-haired menace who slammed a lot of doors and drove too fast. He may have had acne. And an attitude. No doubt he’d matured like we all did and was a fine upstanding citizen.

Finn said he worked for the city—probably meant he had a nine-to-five job. Nice and stable. Maybe even boring.

Boring didn’t bother me. I was comfortable with boring. A person didn’t need flashy clothes or a big personality to get by. The world needed some people to act normal, put our heads down and get the work done while the hell-raisers and fun people created havoc. I’d always been the responsible, reliable type.

All Finn said was, “the kid turned out all right” and advised that I form my own opinions about Braden Michaels. “Approach your new roommate situation without assumptions or predisposition to bias.” Irritating economist, that Finn.

“This is my life for the next six months. It’s not an economic model.” It annoyed me that he wouldn’t give me a tiny nugget of information, but Finn clammed up and acted like I was the weird one for asking.

I rolled my eyes at the recollection before glancing outside at a peach colored brick library building with white columns. Under the pastel blue sky, everything looked much cleaner and more orderly than some of the grimier neighborhoods I was used to in the East Bay. I passed a health food market and an alehouse, picturing a friendly bartender who knew everyone in town by name.

I should have had my eyes on the road. If I had, I might have noticed the ever-diminishing gap between my front bumper and the back of a giant red and silver wall of metal looming in front of me.

Should have, could have...

Story of my life on the road. Too little, way too late.

I barely had time to attempt to slow down. The, the screech of brakes...the scream that shocked me even though it was mine...the jerking of the steering wheel to no avail, then...

Bam!!

My car slammed hard into the stationary object with an impossible smack that provided no cushioning or the slightest bit of give.

It was Physics 101: the greater the force of a moving object, the greater the change in motion, i.e., I hit the gas hard and took all that speed with me. And also Physics 101: the larger the stationary object, the more negligible effect the force on it will have, i.e., I hit something massive, and it bore the impact like a flea flick.

Yup, my brain went there, down the science rabbit hole, thinking about energy transfer and kinetic energy, even as the entire front end of my car went concave. Crumpled metal, sounds of glass shattering, and a scream—mine. Then my head was thrust forward and back again by the impact and a zealous airbag.

What the hell just happened?

If I hadn’t been able to identify the looming object in front of me before, the powdery marshmallow of airbag made it impossible now. I was aware of a burning sensation on my hands and an ache in my jaw. But I was alive.

Thank you, tiny Prius.

Peeking around the overinflated mess of airbag, I identified the looming red wall of metal that had turned my hood into an accordion—the back of a fire truck.

It had a hand-drawn placard above its bumper with three tiny, ironic words: Welcome to Carolwood.

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