Page 78 of My Wife
Jessica buttons her coat and pulls on her hat. “I see you brought Shy Eye Good Guy.”
“That’s the name of your car?”
With a little bounce in her step, she says, “Shy eye because the left headlight doesn’t work—I’ve even had it replaced, but it’s perpetually dark. Good Guy because I want to send it positive vibes.”
“That’s not how vehicles operate, but I can see why it doesn’t always want to cooperate.”
“I see you fine-tuned your meanness meter this morning.”
“I wasn’t being mean. Just honest. The kid and I are lucky we made it here alive.”
“That’s because you drive like a Formula One racer.”
“I do not.” I accelerate, smoking the tires.
Jessica looks at me with alarm.
“Hey, Shy Eye Good Guy has to live a little before he heads out to pasture.”
“Shh. He’ll hear you.” But she giggles and my heart does a funny little leap.
We cruise down Main Street as we leave Cobbiton and Jessica abruptly says, “Stop. I’m having a funding crisis.”
I’m about to explain that I’m buying her the car when she points at the Busy Bee Bakery.
“Ah. You need coffee. Didn’t sleep well last night? Browsing social media? Scrolling #MrDarcysAbs, perchance?” I tease.
“Pfft. You wish.”
Is it weird that I kind of do?
The on-street parking directly in front of the coffee shop is occupied, so I spin around the block and start to maneuver the Nissan into a parallel parking spot. My hand grips the back of Jessica’s headrest as I look over my shoulder.
I become keenly aware of our proximity. Could be because the saggy felt roof lining brushes the top of my head. I slide skillfully into the slot.
“You could just use the camera on the dash.” She points to the radio.
This car was built before that kind of technology was a twinkle in a computer programmer’s eye. I don’t take mine off Miss Sunny Sassy Pants. My arm is practically around her shoulders. I could pull her across the bench seat and into me. Then what?
The look turns into a moment that lengthens between us, twists and changes shape. My breath turns shallow and everything falls out of focus except Jessica. Her gaze warms me, silences my thoughts.
Her cheeks flood with color.
I lick my lips.
She whispers, “I need coffee.”
Like a rubber band, the moment snaps and then goes slack.
While we’re in line at the bakery, I stretch my arms, wondering if I could get away with lacing one over her shoulders now. What would she do? Collapse under the weight? Toss it off, shrieking that I’m manhandling her? Or sink into it?
Hold up, bro. Why am I thinking about this?
The thought resurfaces while we’re waiting to test-drive several vehicles. Jessica insists on getting another Nissan compact.
When she gets the keys, I literally have to shoehorn my way into the backseat. Head hitting the ceiling and neck cramping, the saleswoman on the passenger side raves about the gas economy.
“I love it,” Jessica says when we return to the dealership.
