Page 101 of Count Your Lucky Stars
Mr. Miller grimaced and dipped his chin. “I can call AutoZone, see if they have them in stock, but...”
It was a fifteen-minute drive from Dad’s to the other side of town, where the store was located—thirty minutes roundtrip. Accounting for the time it would take to actually pick the parts up and install them... she was looking at over an hour just to fix the car, easy.
She pressed her lips together and forced a smile. “It’s fine. Thanks for, uh, trying. I appreciate it.” The lump in her throat swelled, the backs of her eyes burning, because what was she supposed to do now?
“Sorry, Olivia,” Mr. Miller said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I wish it would’ve been an easy fix.”
So did she. She scrubbed a hand over her face and exhaled harshly. She couldn’t believe she was about to ask this, but... “You wouldn’t possibly be able to give me a ride into Seattle, would you? I’d be happy to pay for—”
Mr. Miller lifted a hand, cutting her off. “I would, gladly, no money necessary, if it weren’t for the fact that Mae and I are down to one car.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. It had drizzled overnight, and a dry patch of concrete the size of a car stood out against the dark, rain-soaked drive.
“Right.” She swallowed hard and pasted on a flimsy smile. “Thanks, anyway.”
Mr. Miller lowered the hood and bent down to gather his tools. “You need me to call someone? Triple A? Your dad?”
She shook her head. There was no need to interrupt Dad’s trip. It would take him longer than an hour to make it back. Pointless to bother him over something he could do nothing to fix.
Unless replacement spark plugs magically fell from the sky, there was nothing she or anyone could do to fix this. It was unfixable. Her phone was dead, her car was dead, and—
Margot was right.
If Olivia had justwaited, she wouldn’t be in this mess. But she hadn’t listened, and now she was stuck an hour outside of town with no way to get back. Not only was she going to miss the rehearsal, a critical faux pas as thewedding planner, but what would Margot think? Olivia couldn’t call her, couldn’t let her know.God, she knew Margot’s old number by heart, but her new number? There’d been no reason to memorize it with it programmed in her contacts.
Just show up.
Olivia had hadonejob, one means of proving to Margot that she was in, that she wasall in, and she’d blown it. Sure, she could apologize, but would Margot even care to listen?
“Do you happen to have the Coopers’ number? If not, I can give it to you.”
Maybe she could ask Margot’s dad for her new number.
Mr. Miller scrolled through his contacts and nodded. “Here you go.”
Olivia took the proffered phone and hitcall, raising the phone to her ear. It rang four times before going to voicemail. She handed the phone back to Mr. Miller and shook her head. “No answer.”
“I, uh, could call the Taylor kid.” His lips twisted. “Brad?”
Brad.God, no, Brad was the absolute last person on Earth she wanted to...well.
Asking a favor from her ex was just about the least appealing thing she could fathom, but not as terrible as missing the rehearsal. Not showing up. Letting Margot down.
If she was going to do this, she didn’t have time to stand around debating it. If she was going to go, she needed to gonow.
“It’s okay, Mr. Miller.” She hurried around the car, popping the door, and grabbing her duffel from the back seat. “But thanks, anyway.”
Mr. Miller frowned. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, already moving down the drive. She waved. “I’m sure. I’ve really got to go. Tell Mrs. Miller I said hi!”
Brad’s house,herold house, was two streets over, a ten-minute walk at a brisk pace. Olivia booked it, moving as fast as she could in a pencil skirt that kept her from being able to fully spread her legs. Her underwear were beginning to ride up, the lace chafing against the insides of her thighs while the outsides of her thighs and calves burned from this hybrid speed-walk/jog combo. Even though it was only in the midfifties, sweat dampened her hairline and the space between her boobs, leaving her sticky and gross. By the time she made it to Brad’s, she was breathless, and her hair was stuck to her neck and forehead, but she made it.
Hustling past the god-awful bass-shaped mailbox, which wasdefinitelynew, she made a beeline to the front door and pounded the side of her fist against it.“Brad.”
Her heart pounded, chest heaving with every rapid breath that burned the back of her throat. She waited less than thirty seconds and rapped her knuckles against the door, following it with a long, hard press of her thumb against the doorbell.
For a moment, she could’ve sworn she heard the sound of footsteps approaching, thundering down the stairs to the front door, but that was just blood thrumming inside her head.
Olivia whimpered and let her forehead fall forward against the front door. Howstupid. It was Friday, midday. Of course Brad wasn’t answering the door. He was atwork. She scrunched her eyes shut. Just like she needed to be in anhour.
