Page 33 of Take Hold of Me

Wills

“Mercifor beingmy driving instructor again today.”

Not wanting to break her concentration, I reply, “I know you wanted to practice.”

I’ve fallen down on my job of investigating suitable driving schools. I was too jet-lagged since we returned to LA a couple of days ago to look into them—not to mention dealing with paperwork for my new gym—so I agreed to today’s excursion. I make a mental note to do this research over the weekend while she’s in Las Vegas and I’m observing Complete’s Summer Competition. In addition to getting some time in at Vets for Military Dogs.

Emilie drove us to the beach, where we picked up the five gallons of sand McKenna needs for Rose’s shower. Now, she’s navigating through the mid-afternoon LA traffic—albeit not on the freeway—with more confidence than before. She’s even managed to make several turns with only one windshield wiper incident. How does she even do that? I rub my fingers around my jaw, noting a small patch I missed this morning while shaving.

We pass through an intersection in the right lane. “You’ll need to make a left at the next light.”

She nods, her lip between her teeth, and checks the side-view mirror before signaling her move to the next lane. When we stop at the stop sign, she blows out a breath, her hair flying up off her forehead.

“Everything okay? You’re doing great.”

She goes through the intersection and continues along the route to her attorney’s office. “Oui. I am good with the driving. It is just—”

She stops talking when an asshole comes from nowhere and cuts her off, horn blaring. Her hands shake on the steering wheel and her posture straightens. She slams on the brakes and, not having time to grab onto the roll bar, I stop my forward motion on the dash instead.

At a dead stop in the through lane, she turns her head to me. Wide-eyed, she asks, “What did I do wrong?”

I reach over and put my hand over one of hers. Not only is it shaking, it’s ice cold. Not a good recipe for a new driver. Indignation on her behalf rises. Releasing her hand, I say, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes drivers are total assholes.”

Her lips quiver upward and she inhales. She takes her foot off the brake and eases onto the accelerator. After going a few feet, she sighs and turns on her right blinker.

“Where are you going, Emilie? We don’t have to turn again for another mile.”

She turns toward the curb and puts the Jeep into park. “Wills, I know I need the practice, but I am feeling not so comfortable. Would it be alright if you finished driving us to the attorney’s office? I will drive us back home.” She makes an “X” over her heart. “Promise.”

Whoa. I’ve never seen her so defeated. Quirking my head, I ask, “What’s up?”

She unclasps her seat belt. “Are you sure you want to know? I am probably just being an overmelodic model.”

A what? Problems with her English come out when she’s upset—I’ve seen that before—so I try to decipher what she intended to say. I can’t. “You’re an excellent model.”

She sighs again and opens her door. I scramble to unbuckle my seat belt and meet her at the front of the vehicle. Placing my fingers underneath her chin, I bring her eyes up to mine. The brown is accentuated over the green today. “I’ll let you be the passenger this once. If you’re going to get your driver’s license, though, you’ll have to be able to handle jerks on the road, okay?”

She nods. and stands in the front of my Jeep waiting for me to let her go. Which I do.

Once we’re back on the road, I give her tips about how I’m driving. She nods in understanding but without all the wide-eyed exuberance I’ve come to expect from her during driving lessons. I want to gut punch whoever made Emilie this defeated.

“Out with it.”

She drops her hand from her lip. “What do you want to know?”

“Why do you look so … upset? Was it the driving?”

“No.” She checks her fingernails, painted a lime green. She extends them toward me. “See this color?”

Without taking my eyes from the road, I nod. “I saw them before. Green.” Not the right shade, if you ask me though. Not like her eyes at all.

“Oui. They are green. But they should have been pink.”

Furrowing my brow, I ask, “Didn’t the manicurist listen to you?”

“It was not the manicurist. It was the television commercial people who instructed the manicurist.”

I’m not following. It’s just a color. “Did you tell them you didn’t like it?”

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