Page 28 of Female Fantasy
Like there’s gravel stuck in his throat.
“Joonie? Joon, are you okay?”
My eyes flutter open. “Nico?”
The truck is nestled in a shallow ditch on the side of the road, all but totaled.
My head is resting on the airbag that has mushroomed in front of me, and my seat belt is seconds away from cutting off my circulation.
Nico sits next to me, a thin gash on his forehead. His eyes are wild with worry.
“Wh-what happened?” I ask.
My brain searches for answers, swimming against the current of pain. The faint throbbing in my temples. A churning in my gut, threatening to give way to waste.
We were arguing about the validity of romance as a genre.
Nico wouldn’t stop calling me kid.
I checked the ETA on the Waze app, and it said six hours.
What else?
“I think I’m concussed,” I mutter.
Great. I get so close to finding the love of my life, and this is how I go out: in a ditch in middle-of-nowhere rural Connecticut with only my nemesis at my deathbed.
“You don’t remember?” Nico’s eyes search my body, frantic, looking for injuries.
“Wait, it’s all coming back to me.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “There was a loud crash. A sound like the cymbals. Then a bright light. I can see it now. And you were there, dressed all in green. Like Kermit the Frog. And you were singing ‘Bananza’ by Akon…”
“Okay, you’re fine,” he snaps, but there’s a hint of something else in his voice as well.
Relief?
“That asshole just hit us and kept going,” Nico says. “Well, no. He paused for a second to make sure we were still alive. Then he kept going. God, I hope he steps on a Lego.”
I choke on a laugh. Is that some kind of Millennial version ofgo fuck yourself?
“Did you get his license plate number?” I ask, sniffing the air. Something smells like it’s on fire. Not the best sign.
Nico glares. “I was a little busy seeing double afterhitting my head on the dashboard.”
“Hey, now, don’t take this out on me.” I throw up my hands. “And if I recall correctly, this little fender bender was not all that dude’s fault. You did kind of step on the brakes like you were playing DDR.”
“DDR?”
“Dance Dance Revolution,” I explain.
“Well, you had just shared some startling information. You know that you’re heading to New York to stalk a stranger.”
“Not stalk! Meet. It’s only stalking from a distance, I think.”
Nico just shakes his head. “Were we even just in the same car crash?”
Before I can come up with a clever comeback, I feel a vibration in my pocket. My phone’s buzzing.
Teymoor is calling, now of all times.
