Page 1 of Officer Anders

1

ELAINA

Being the mom of a teenage girl is a special kind of hell, reserved for sinners who've done terrible, terrible things in their pasts, and I often wonder just how much I must have sinned to deserve this.

"Celeste says they're going to leave to the waterpark without me." Mollie's eyes barely look up from the glowing screen of her iPhone, but I can catch a glimpse of her puffed out bottom lip, a sure sign that she’s teetering on the edge of a dramatic meltdown.

I would rather die than endure Mollie's lengthy diatribe about how I’ve single-handedly ruined her entire weekend. "You told them I'd drop you off at 1:00, right?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady as I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It reads 12:13, and I mentally calculate that I should have more than enough time if my teenage daughter actually did what she was supposed to do, for once.

But Mollie lets out a sigh filled with exaggerated frustration, rolling her eyes as she confirms, "Yes." She continues, her tone dripping with urgency, "They want to go early though. The UVindex is already a 7! This is the perfect tanning weather, Mom!" Her voice rises in pitch, as if the mere thought of missing out sends her into a spiral of despair.

The whine in her voice makes me wonder if I was that much of a snot when I was fifteen years old. God bless Mollie, of course, but man, sometimes I want to drop her off on the side of the road and drive away as fast as I can, leaving her and her incessant demands behind. I don’t remember caring about tanning when I was her age; my priorities were quite different then. I remember caring about kissing boys and playing Spin The Bottle, those harmless little games that filled our summer nights with laughter and innocent excitement, games that didn’t involve the looming threat of skin cancer or the pressure to look perfect under the sun.

"Oh. My. God!"

Mollie's scream pierces through my thoughts, nearly taking me out of my skin. I jerk the steering wheel hard to the left in response to her shriek, my heart racing as I nearly careen into the center divider, the asphalt blurring past us. When I finally gather my wits and realize there isn't a puppy in the road or an old lady crossing that I didn’t see, I right my car and shoot a glare toward the daughter I have to remind myself that I love. "Mollie, what the hell?" I snap, my pulse still quickening from the near-miss. We could have died going 25 down Main Street, and at least I wouldn't have had to worry about getting Mollie to Celeste's anytime soon.

"The police officers are hosting a car wash!" she exclaims, her excitement bubbling over, oblivious to the chaos she just caused.

I know she's serious because her eyes have shifted from the glow of her digital screen to something far more captivating. They'vewidened, sparkling with interest, as they fixate on men who are undoubtedly far too old for her. "Mollie Taylor!" I scold, my voice firm. "You better stop looking at them like that!"

"Mom, we gotta get the car washed. Please!" she pleads with all the fervor of a teenager on a mission. "I don't ask for much!" Technically, she only asks for my sanity, my patience, and my ability to remain composed when she suddenly remembers she needs supplies for a project at 8:00 pm the night before it's due. But beyond that, it’s not much, right?

Still, this feels like a teaching moment. If I ban Mollie from admiring half-naked men all soapy and glistening now, she’s just going to be curious about it later on in life, and I’d rather she learn to navigate those waters while I’m still close by to guide her.

So, I pull into the parking lot, where a couple of officers in their full gear stand proudly, holding brightly coloured signs that advertise the car wash. The sight of them, smiling and waving, adds a touch of absurdity to the situation.

"Hey there, ma'am!" A friendly, older gentleman greets me as I pull into the lot, his voice warm and inviting. "We're raising money for little Johnny Jameson, a kid on 12th Street who really needs a service dog. The car wash is free, but any donations would be greatly appreciated." With a kind smile, he gestures toward an open 'stall' where six shirtless men stand ready, wielding hoses, sponges, and an impressive amount of soap, their energy infectious.

Mollie, meanwhile, hasn't picked up her phone in a solid two minutes, her eyes glued to the group of young men we’re approaching. I could easily shake my head at her blatant teenage, hormonal attraction, but truth be told, I find myselffeeling a little bit of it, too. It’s hard not to, given the scene unfolding before us.

"Miss, would you and the little lady like to step out of the vehicle?" One of the shirtless hotties, probably in his early twenties, calls out to me, his voice smooth and charming. He’s undeniably too young for my taste, but I can see the way Mollie’s eyes light up at the sight of him, as if he’s the perfect embodiment of youth and vitality that she so admires.

"Absolutely!" she exclaims, her excitement palpable as she unbuckles her seatbelt and practically flings her door open, the hinges creaking in protest. Whatever happened to our plan of making it to Celeste's place by 1:00? It seems the urgency to reach the waterpark has faded into the background, overshadowed by the thrill of the moment.

I suppose there are worse scenarios than my teenage daughter flirting with a cop—a boy, really, not much older than she is. For one, he appears completely absorbed in the task of washing my car, which is nearly unrecognizable under layers of dirt and grime that have accumulated over the years. Honestly, I can’t recall the last time my trusty Honda CRV saw a proper wash.

Taking a seat at one of the weathered picnic tables, I watch with a mix of half-hearted amusement and reluctant pride as this fleet of twenty-somethings diligently scrubs my beloved vehicle, transforming it from a neglected heap into something that might actually shine. Meanwhile, my other 'baby' is busy trying to charm an officer of the law, who, with a bemused expression, seems less than eager to engage in conversation with someone who’s still firmly in the realm of 'jailbait.' All things considered, it’s shaping up to be a good day.

"Hey, good lookin'," a striking man in fitted jeans and an impressive array of abs slides onto the bench beside me, his confidence radiating. "How's it goin'?"

I forcibly drag my gaze away from his undeniably impressive physique, honed from hours spent in the gym, and focus on his face instead. He has a jawline so sharp it could slice through steel. "Do I know you?" I inquire, curiosity piquing as I try to place him in my memory.

Handsome only purses his lips, a playful glint in his eyes, and gives a teasing cluck of his tongue while he mulls it over. "Depends. Did I write you a ticket once? Because you have 'fine' written all over you!" His smirk is infectious, and for a brief moment, I can’t help but appreciate his boldness.

"Enough," comes the deep, booming voice of an older man, cutting through the flirtation like a knife. "Stop hitting on the moms, Dave. They aren't interested." His tone is firm yet protective, leaving no room for argument.

If I thought this Dave character was attractive, the moment I take a good look at my knight-in-shining-armor, I’m utterly blown away. He's in his thirties, at least, which aligns perfectly with my middle-aged thirty-five. His presence exudes a sense of authority and warmth that’s hard to ignore.

"Man, stop ruining my good time," Dave swears, his voice laced with playful annoyance as he gets up and walks away, a sulky stoop in his step as he kicks rocks with a hint of frustration, searching for someone else to charm with his antics.

Poor kid. He’ll find his Cinderella out there somewhere. As long as it’s not in my daughter...

"Sorry about Dave, ma'am," my knight apologizes for his buddy's behavior, his voice sincere and smooth, making me feel oddly reassured in the midst of this chaotic interaction.

I wave him off, a lighthearted smile on my face. "No apology necessary. He's a good kid. His pickup lines are a little old-fashioned, but he's not old enough to realize that yet."

"Mind if I take a seat?" I nod, and my shirtless hero sidles up beside me, his confidence radiating like the sun. "I'm Anders, by the way. Anders Hemingway, and I'm old enough to know that you are absolutely right. That pickup line is older than I am."

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