Page 111 of Friends Don't Kiss

I don’t think those were my words, but I let it slide. If it’s how she feels now, I’m more than okay with it.

I smile, remembering that day vividly.

I’d been to New Hampshire on a call for a 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback stranded on the side of the road—turned out it was just a loose belt. On my way back, off a township road, I noticed fresh tire marks that continued straight into a thicket where the road angled sharply left. Slowing down, the glimmer in the trees indicated a car was there, tucked deep in the underbrush.

I pulled over. My immediate thought was that the driver might have fallen asleep at the wheel and hit a tree. Prepared for the worst, I had my phone out to call EMS when I saw the most angelic face. She had reclined the driver’s seat. The window was cracked open an inch or so. “You okay in there?” I asked.

She started, momentarily confused, large eyes widening, then her face closed off and she said, “I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” She went to start the engine and muttered, “Can’t fucking sleep in peace.”

“Hey, miss,” I said, hands up in the universal sign of someone who doesn’t want to cause trouble. “I was just checking. Just making sure you’re okay.”

“Yeah right,” she answered, avoiding my gaze. She backed up into a clearing and made a swift three-point turn.

My truck was blocking her access to the road. She stared at it, straight ahead. That gave me time to admire her small, pointed nose. Her clear, porcelain-like skin. To notice how thin she was. And that her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

The back of her car seemed packed with bags. I knocked on her window, signaling her to open it.

“What?” she snapped but did as I asked.

I bent down so that my face was closer to the opening. It didn’t smell like booze or weed. At least there was that.

“You traveling?” I asked, glancing at her bags obviously again.

“What’s it to you?”

“Maybe this is my land.”

This got me a once-over. “I don’t think so.” She was young, I could tell, and yet her eyes were weary. Something in me wanted to protect her from whatever she was running from. She’d seen shit, and she didn’t want to deal with more of that. “Besides, I’m leaving. What do you care?”

Good question. I didn’t know why at the time, but I did care.

I wished I had her spunk to deal with my own shit, and her comebacks when people got in my way. I was instantly attracted to her energy.

At the same time, she got me riled up—concerned. I didn’t know what to do with her, but one thing was clear: I wasn’t leaving her. So I went back to my truck, grabbed my emergency box of cookies, and waited.

She got out of her car and stomped to me. “Hey. Move.”

“My mom says you don’t catch flies with vinegar."

“You calling me a fly?”

“I’m saying you’re the vinegar. You want me out of your way, ask me nicely.” I popped a whole cookie in my mouth, relishing what was to come.

Whatever it was, the way her eyes danced was my reward. “Can you pretty please get your fucking truck out of my fucking way?”

“You talk to your mom with that mouth?”

Her face closed tighter than it already was. “No.” Then she clarified, defiance in her tone, “I don’t talk to my mother.”

Her eyes had a shine that I instantly loved, although later I’d find out it meant pain. But at the time, it intrigued me.Sheintrigued me. Pulled me in.

I wanted some of that strength.

“Okay,” I said, shrugging like I didn’t care. I took another cookie and offered her the box. “Hungry?”

She looked starved. “Not enough to eat your industrial shit.”

I swallowed. “I have a cousin,” I started.

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