Page 73 of Where We Call Home

Today’s plan was simple: run to the store, grab paint and supplies for the baby’s nursery, and get back for Rhodes. Ideally, we’d pull into the driveway at the same time, and he’d swoop in to help me out.

Time was ticking. Each passing day brought me closer to my due date—early January—and it was already November. With the holidays approaching, time always seemed to speed up, even if I didn’t have much family to celebrate with.

I’d envisioned the perfect nursery, my Pinterest board finally coming to life. Neutrals, darker tones, and a vibe that screamed “kick-ass” rather than “cutesy.” Longhorns, cow print, and tasteful patterns were all part of the plan. Still, I had to temper my enthusiasm—this was temporary. I’d save the grand ideas for when I had a place of my own. For now, a little paint and maybe a rug would do.

POP!

The sound jolted me, and I clenched the wheel, my eyes squeezing shut in reflex. Was I hit? Did I hit something?

The car sputtered, its speedometer slowly ticking downward as it lost power.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I cursed, yanking the wheel to steer toward safety. The car coasted to a stop, its tires landing half on the shoulder and half on someone’s front lawn. Oops.

With a final gasp, the engine died. The dashboard went dark, and the wheels refused to budge.

What do I do now?

My first thought was Gus—he was the only one I trusted with Betsy. Digging through my purse, I found my phone and dialed his shop. The line rang endlessly before a voicemail finally picked up.

“Thanks for callingThe Rolling Wrench.We’ll be closed for vacation and return next week. Please leave your name and number, and we’ll get back to you shortly. Keep rolling.”

Gus’s monotone delivery didn’t do justice to the upbeat tagline, which was clearly the work of his teenage daughter, Indie.

Groaning, I leaned back against the headrest, weighing my options. The list was short. Too short. I only had one other person I could call.

Swallowing my pride, I dialed the number. As the phone rang, unease crept in. What if the car was beyond repair? This wasn’t any car—it had been my dad’s. Losing it would mean losing one of the last pieces I had of him.

“Hello?” Rhodes’s chipper voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.

“I’m stuck,” I groaned.

“Stuck like you can’t get off the couch? Or stuck on the floor because you dropped the remote and thought you could grab it yourself?”

“No, smartass. Stuck on the side of the road because my car broke down.”

“Oh, shit.” His tone shifted. “Where are you?”

“Just outside town. I tried Gus, he’s on vacation. I can’t sit here until next week—I’ll die.”

Rhodes chuckled. “So dramatic.”

“You like it, though. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so nice to me.”

“True,” he admitted. “I’ll come to your rescue, but I’ll need to bring a friend.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“It’s okay, Honey. We’ll take care of it.”

I sighed, a mix of relief and anxiety washing over me. I knew he’d help, but the thought of losing the car still weighed heavily.

“Let me grab Boone, and I’ll head your way. Text me your location.”

While I waited, I rested my forehead against the steering wheel, letting my thoughts wander—probably not my best idea. I thought about Rhodes, the sex, the car, and the future. Everything felt interconnected, tangled together by a fragile thread.

We hadn’t addressed the sex since it happened, which, in hindsight, was either very mature or incredibly childish. We’d carried on as if nothing had changed, but I knew deep down that it had.

Being with Rhodes wasn’t only physical. It felt deeper, more meaningful. When he looked at me, I felt seen. When he listened, I felt heard. And now, as he rushed to help me, I felt cared for.

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