Page 8 of Good and Gone

I’m exhausted after morning drop-off, which is not good because I’ve got a full day's work ahead of me, including a photo shoot and two meetings where I need to pitch myself, and our after-school sitter just texted to say she can’t make it.

I should have a backup. Tyler is always saying we should have a backup, but somehow I never get around to making it happen.

My maps app says I'm five miles from the shoot when my car suddenly dies. The stoplight turns green, but I go nowhere. Behind me, a cacophony of horns sound off. I try to restart the engine, but nothing happens. It’s as dead as a doornail.

Most cars that pass give me the death stare, glancing over their shoulder as though they have to actually lay eyes on the idiot that is holding everyone up. A few even flip me the bird. Finally, a good samaritan stops, and then another, and together the two men push my car off the road and into a gas station parking lot.

“Thank you,” I say profusely. “You saved me.”

Really, I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t stopped to help. I’m in the best shape of my life, and I still don’t think I could have pushed the car myself.

“It’s no problem,” the first man to stop says suavely. His clothes are expensive—neat trousers and an oxford shirt—his skin tanned from the sun and hair short in a trendy haircut that flatters his square face. His eyes crinkle when he smiles at me. My eyes follow his back to his car. There isn't much time for chit-chat. Their cars are still idling in the middle of the road.

“Out of gas?” The other guy points to the pumps, his hand and arm speckled with dirt and hair. He wears a ragged, dirty T-shirt; the number "99" is printed across the front, and “Spencer” is written on the back. He has pale skin and long, dark hair that flows down his back and over his shoulders. His eyes are small. Beady. And he’s tall, unusually tall. “If so, you’re in luck.”

“No, it’s not that.” If only gas were the problem. It’s not. I have more than half a tank.

They start back toward their vehicles, and we’re sort of shouting across the parking lot.

“Wait a minute,” the man with long hair remarks, stopping in his tracks. He’s practically standing in the middle of the road. A busy road at that. He’s easily six foot five, so at least he’s not hard to miss.

He looks me up and down, carefully studying my face, my clothes. “You’re Hailey…” He waves a hand in the air and then drops it to rub at his chin. “Ah, shucks. I can’t remember the last name.”

When I smile and wave him on, he wags a finger at me, like I’ve been caught. “But you’re her, aren’t you?”

I shrug as though to say,who me?I shout another thank you, urging him out of the street. It’s always sort of a strange feeling when people recognize you from the internet, even more so when you’re not in your element.

“Can’t fool me,” he calls out. “I know who you are. You’re that model. My wife is obsessed with you!”

I wave and smile, watching as the two men make it back to their cars. Traffic is backed up in all directions, the intersection in complete chaos. An officer arrives, his lights flashing.

Embarrassed, I slump down in the driver’s seat and try the ignition, pleading silently at first, and then direct prayers when that fails. I feel annoyed with myself for being overly optimistic, as though something might have changed in the last five minutes.

I call Tyler. It goes to voicemail. This isn't unusual. He's busy doing consults, and when he isn't doing that, he's often on hold waiting to speak to physicians.

“Hailey?” I startle at the sound of my name. It’s the tall man who pushed my car. He’s leaning halfway through my door.What is it with people this morning?“I was wondering if I might get a photo. For my wife. She’ll never believe me otherwise.”

My heart has leaped into my throat, and my hand is on my chest, trying to steady my breath. “Sure, no problem.”

“Sorry,” he says, stepping back so I can get out of the car. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I smile as I climb out of the driver’s seat. “I wasn’t expecting you, is all.” He positions himself shoulder to shoulder and snaps a selfie. Afterward, he holds the phone about three feet from his face, squinting at the screen. His breath smells like coffee and cigarettes, and his clothes smell like hair gel and air freshener and freedom. He’s maybe thirty or so; he's not wearing glasses, but the way he's squinting at the phone, I'm guessing his eyesight isn’t the best. He seems anxious to make conversation with me.

He stares at me. “All good?” I ask, turning back to my car.

“Yeah, thanks.”

I can tell that he wants to make small talk, so apologetically I flash my phone, holding it between us. “I apologize, but I have to make a call,” I say. “I’m late for an appointment.”

He nods, and an awkward silence falls between us. It lasts for several beats. “You need a lift?”

“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “Um…no. I appreciate the offer, but my husband is on the way.”

He moves closer, invading my personal space. “Hey, do you want to know a secret?”

I freeze, my hand on the door handle. This is not a conversation I want to have. I shake my head to the negative, but he proceeds anyway.

“My wife’s pregnant,” he says, as if sharing this with me will make me like him more. I’m not sure how to react, so I don’t say anything. “We’re having a boy.”

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