Page 34 of Missed Exit

This weekend clearly went off-script, so I either need to take my car somewhere and pay someone to change the oil or learn how to do it myself. How hard could it be?

The internet comes in clutch with dozens of videos on how to change the oil in a car. But it turns out, it’s not the same for every car, and I just wasted an hour rewatching the same video three times before I realized this.

Why can’t I be one of those people who watches a video one time and gets it? My head hurts, and I’m not in the mood to watch another damn video over and over again. I think I’ve got the gist of it. I’ll figure it out.

I’m staring under the hood of my car when Law’s voice registers in my ear. What did he say? Reluctantly, I look in his direction.

He’s standing in his yard, staring at me.

“What are you doing?”

“An oil change.”

“Telepathically?”

I glare in his general direction. “You’re not always as funny as you think you are.”

He walks toward me, and I wish that didn’t make me want to run inside and hide from him. I stand my ground.

“I told you I’d change your oil, Greta.”

“Yeah, well, you said a lot of things.”

“None of them lies. I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be, but let me at least make good on my promise to change your oil, okay?”

“It wasn’t exactly a promise.”

“I considered it one. I’m changing your oil.”

“Fine! Knock yourself out. Change the damn oil.” I throw my arms up, storm inside and slam the door. Not my finest moment, but then again, opening that notebook damn sure wasn’t his either.

I can hear him out there clanging tools around. It sounds excessive for an oil change, if you ask me. And what am I supposed to do now? I’m trapped.

Is he talking to himself out there?

A quick peek through my blinds reveals there is actually someone else on our shared driveway. And now, Law’s yelling at him. He’s probably taking all his frustration with me out on that poor kid.

I march back outside. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Take it down a notch!”

The young man looks shocked to see me. He’s probably so embarrassed.

“Hi,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Greta.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He timidly shakes my hand. “I’m Derringer.”

This is the infamous Derringer Wells? He looks like a complete sweetheart with his sandy blonde, shaggy hair and his big, green eyes –a little bit like a much younger and taller Keith Urban. I can see the heartthrob aspect, but not the reckless bad boy that Law’s made him out to be.

“Law’s told me so much about you.”

He drops his head, and I see bruises and scrapes on his cheek and his jaw. I just want to hug him. It’s obvious he knows Law hasn’t said great things about him, and clearly, something bad has happened to him.

“I’ll let you get back to your car repairs,” he says quietly to Law. “I guess call me later. If you want. I can tell you the rest.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard enough.”

Derringer nods, and then he walks off to a waiting car. The young woman behind the wheel looks worried.

After they drive away, I turn to Law. “What’s going on with him?”

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