Page 77 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

ZACHERY AND THEREDRIVER

Kelsey seems subdued as we load our cars the next morning. She texted around eight that she was headed to a small Wyoming town north of Cheyenne and dropped a pin at a motel she’d found.

It looked atrocious. I quickly searched up a house to rent and found several. I booked one and sent her the link.

She said she would stay at her place, and I could stay in mine.

I get it. The aftereffects of our night have hit me, too.

I spent a good chunk of the evening drinking brandy-laced coffee with Livia. She told a lot of stories about Dillville, and I subtly steered us away from any of her hints about having a dalliance. She didn’t push.

It was good. It kept me from brooding about Kelsey or, worse, sneaking into her bed.

When I got back to my room, I checked on her, sleeping soundly in the old-fashioned four-poster bed. She was beautiful and ethereal, surrounded by floral sheets and lace.

I will never forget our night.

There is no open phone call or shared song list on this leg of the journey. She drives ahead of me, and all I see of her is the vague bulge of her loose bun over the headrest. Mostly, I follow her taillights and wonder if we made a grave mistake last night.

We get off the interstate when she pulls into a large truck stop with charging stations. There’s a diner, and I park nearby and walk up to her with trepidation as she hooks up her hybrid.

Normally my interactions with women the day after are easy. I set the tone, making clear that I’ll let the woman know if another opportunity arises to get her some press, as if everything that transpired was always about her career.

Then I don’t call her again unless that scenario comes to fruition, which, honestly, is rare. Desdemona doesn’t give them much opportunity to prove themselves. Her list is deep with stalled-out hopefuls.

But with Kelsey, I’m in uncharted territory. We work together. I’m here to help her out of the low period she’s been in.

And speaking of periods, she’s having one. Right through her cute white shorts. There was no hint of it last night.

She’s having trouble with the lock of the charging-port door, bent over, peering at it.

“Hey, Kels,” I say.

She bangs the door and it pops open. “There,” she says, plugging in the cord. “Now we wait.”

“Hey.”

I think she might be ignoring me, but then she turns. “Hey.”

I fumble for words. “I think something is happening.” I shift my gaze to her shorts.

For a moment, her mouth opens like she’s shocked I would say that. I realize she thinks I’m propositioning her again.

“No, no, I mean, there’s something on your ...”

She looks down, but I think from her angle, she can’t see it.

“What?”

“Bleeding?” I manage.

She bends farther over, and this time, she sees it. “Damn it!” She turns in a circle a moment, then practically leaps into her back seat. She surfaces with the gray sweater she’s been wearing to bed and a pair of denim shorts.

“Oh, underwear. And the cup.” She isn’t speaking to me, but herself.

I take several steps back, and she turns around to dig some more.

When she emerges the second time, she ties the gray sweater around her waist. “I guess I’m going in.” She’s not embarrassed, which makes me glad. It’s a normal thing.

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