Page 32 of Deliverance

I follow Zander as he walks toward the road, and we pause near the curb to make sure there’s no traffic. Since it’s late, the vehicles that pass are few and far between, yet he holds out a hand, and despite the warning bells going off in my head, I take it.

I allow his long fingers to wrap around mine and gently pull me across the street. His palm is callused, his grip strong but careful, and I realize that for the first time in years, I’m not terrified of intimacy, however insignificant it may be and for however short a time it may last. In this case, less than a minute, just until we get to the property edging the opposite side of the road.

Fenced by shimmering lights, the lot is quiet and as predicted, we don’t see Zander’s car anywhere.

“Fuck,” he spits out a curse and turns around, his eyes scanning the surroundings, then staring up at the starless city sky.

I expect more. Maybe some kicking and screaming. But instead, he drags his gaze over to me and smiles. It’s brittle and there’s a shadow of frustration on his face, but he doesn’t seem to want to show how much the loss of his car truly upsets him.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, unsure of what else to say, and a dipping sensation hits my stomach.

Zander shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

Oh, but it is.“Do you want me to go with you?” I ask while he’s looking at the signs that line the lot in search of the information on where to call.

“You don’t have to. It’s pretty late.” But he doesn’t sound convincing. The soft tone of his voice tells me otherwise.

“I don’t need to be anywhere in the morning.” I’m surprised at how confidently I tell this lie, because I do have to be up early for my doctor’s appointment. However, part of me has already decided that accompanying Zander to bail out his car could be the perfect excuse to sleep in and not go. On the other hand, missing the appointment will only delay the inevitable, not erase the fact that my marriage robbed me of too many things I’m probably a fool to hope to get back or experience.

It takes me a second to understand why I really want to spend the rest of the night with Zander Shaw. And it’s not the avoidance of hearing what my doctor has to say. Oddly, Zander makes me feel the things I thought I’d never feel again. Like the flutter in my chest and the lightness in my head that has nothing to do with wine. And then there’s the matter of my muse whispering in my ear, giving me ideas.

“It might take a while,” Zander says, punching a number listed on one of the signs into his phone, his other hand still clutching the vinyl.

“That’s fine,” I tell him. “I’m sure you could use some company.” Again, I’m surprised at how insistent I am. There are surely more interesting things a woman can do on a weeknight.

“You’re not the only one who can get carried away,” Zander says with a smirk once he ends the call and has the information he needs.

“Your getting carried away is way more dangerous than mine.”

He steps closer and whispers, “Didn’t you know? Dangerous is my middle name.”

A shiver dances down my spine and I can’t help but note that he’s right, just not in the way he thinks. “Hold the cheese, maybe.” I roll my eyes.

A deep laugh rumbles out of his throat. “Cheese is the best part.”

“I like it better on pizza, not taglines.”

“Pizza I can arrange. Just tell me when and where.”

My heart leaps and I’m lost for words for a brief moment. The slow realization of what I’m—we’re—doing rushes over me like a cool breeze.

“I’ll have to check my schedule.” I try to match the tone of my voice to his. Keep it light. Matter-of-fact. Except there’s nothing matter-of-fact in the way Zander’s staring down at me. His eyes are full of hope.

“I’m easy,” he says.

“Just so you know, I don’t think pineapple and tomato sauce belong together.”

“Just so you know, I’m going to try and prove you wrong.

We share a smile and something passes in the air between us. There’s no need for more. Deep down, I know it’s settled. He has my number, and eventually, pizza is happening. He wouldn’t have offered it otherwise.

Ten minutes later, we climb into the back of an Uber and head over to pick up Zander’s car from the impound lot. On the way there, we talk about random stuff. Music. Movies. Food. Apparently, Zander isn’t big on TV shows, doesn’t have Netflix, and loves surfing. Seemingly insignificant pieces of information that I file away nonetheless.

It does take us almost two hours to get his car back, and when we finally drive off the lot in the vehicle that looks and sounds more expensive than what my mother’s new house in Colorado costs, I’m a little intimidated.

Zander Shaw isn’t your typical guy next door. He’s rich and famous and probably has no shortage of women to spend his nights with.

Be careful, Drew, my voice of reason tells me as we cruise along the quiet downtown street. At night, this part of the city is devoid of life, except for the homeless that like to congregate on certain blocks where the police don’t hassle them, and occasionally, one will be on a bench or the ground and it’s hard to tell whether they’re sleeping or dead. It’s a sad sight, one I still can’t get used to, even after several years of living here.

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