Page 109 of The Second Kiss
Going Home
Ilook at my cell phone again. It still says the same thing: “No Service.” I don’t know why I was expecting it to change. I haven’t moved.
“What am I even doing here?” I say to the endless blue sky. All around me are patchwork fields, farmland that stretches for miles, and the setting sun painting it all in hues of gold, pink, and purple—breathtaking. I wish I could enjoy it.
But I'm stranded.
No sign of civilization. No cell phone coverage. My car is dead. I’m sitting on the side of the freeway, in the middle of nowhere and it's getting dark.
Why didn’t I buy a new car when I had the chance?
I got out once and peered into the Nag’s inner workings. A complete mystery. I should have asked Jacob to throw in mechanics lessons with his self-defense class.
I called Mom as soon as I left the party. I casually asked about Jacob. She told me he and Laini were coming over for dinner on Sunday to say goodbye. He’s leaving early Monday morning for Iraq.
I don’t have a plan. I don’t even know how I’m going to get Jacob away from Laini long enough to talk to him. One way or another, I have to know. Kendra’s right. I can’t let Jacob go without telling him how I feel.
If he doesn't feel the same way I do, then maybe I can move on.
The way things are going, I’ll get home just in time to hear Jacob and Laini announce their engagement. Actually, if my luck holds, they’ll find my body, stripped and beaten, in some farmer’s field about April.
I weigh my options. I can walk or possibly run back to the last town I passed, but I don't know how far that is, and running down the freeway in the dark sounds like suicide. I could climb to the highest point I can find and try to get a cell phone signal. Or I can sit in my car and hope some Good Samaritan who isn’t also a crazed psychopath will happen by.
I lean my head against my steering wheel and pray someone will come. It's quiet for a long time. I strain for the sound of another car, but all I hear is my breathing. Eventually, far away, the distinctive sound of a big motorcycle thunders down the road. I wait, not sure which side of the freeway it's coming from. If it’s on the other side, I won't be able to flag the rider down. It’s on my side, so I turn on my hazard lights.
The motorcycle—an old Harley, pulls up behind me and stops. The rider is wearing a leather fringed jacket, a red scarf, and black boots. My heart pounds and my stomach churns. I reach for the locket again, even though I know it's not there.
I check my door locks. Then I roll the window down just a couple of inches.
“Car trouble?” His gray handlebar mustache bobs up and down as he talks. My eyes in his mirrored sunglasses reflect fear.
His smile is friendly, but I have to swallow hard to keep my voice from shaking. “It just kind of sputtered and died and now it won’t start.”
“Pop the hood,” he says. “Let me take a look.”
My hands are trembling, but I obey. He tinkers with the engine for a few minutes. Then he walks back towards his bike. “I have some tools that might help.”
He takes a small toolbox and a large flashlight out of a leather saddlebag attached to his bike. I try not to think about how easy it would be for him to break my windshield with the tools he’s carrying.
“Try it,” he says after a few minutes.
I turn the key. It clicks. Under his breath he says, “At least it’s a Ford and not some foreign piece of...” He stops when he notices I’m listening.
A few more minutes more of tinkering and swearing under his breath. Then he says, "Try it now."
The engine turns over. It's running but making a churning sound, like it might die at any minute. He shuts the hood and walks back to my window. I roll it down a little farther.
“How far are you going?” he asks.
“About 200 more miles,” I say meekly.
He shakes his head. “Where are you coming from?”
“WSU.”
“Are you a student there?” he asks.
“Yes.”
