Page 12 of A Not So Merry Rescue
The engine purrs to life. Or it would “purr” had it been a new engine. This is more like a rumble and a stuttering start. But it’s a win it started.
“What is it with this town and unnecessary lights?”
I’m momentarily confused by what she means until she points to the dash. Almost every warning indicator is lit up, but I use her question to get an answer of my own.
Once out of the lot and on the road, I ask, “Why are Christmas lights unnecessary?”
Her body quivers, one long shudder from head-to-toe
“Wasted electricity on something too bright.”
“You got sensitive eyes?”
“No.”
“You into conserving the world’s energy?”
“Nope.” She pops the p. The struggle is real to stay on this side of the center console.
“Weak argument,” I mutter, all prepared to go to battle to defend the need for Christmas lights and decorations.
I sneak a peek at her. Her arms cross over her chest. “My opinion is valid since it’smine.”
“Not when it’s wrong,” I mumble under my breath, hoping she doesn’t hear me. I divert my attention back to the road, but the sounds of her huffs and sighs intrigue me, leaving me wondering what other nonsense she’s prepared to unleash.
Do I mind getting her riled? Not in the slightest.
Am I doing it on purpose? Yep.
She’s at my beck—no pun intended—and call because she can’t drive her car in the shape it’s in. She can’t even get out of Winterberry, let alone wherever she’s headed.
“What do you like about Christmas lights?” Her voice is softer, more inquisitive.
“The joy it brings to the people in town. The ambience it sets for the surrounding area. The ways the different color lights create a magical atmosphere. The vivid colors. Shall I keep going?”
“Nope, nauseated enough.”
I appreciate how she’s not afraid to give her opinions, wrong as they may be. She’s got gusto, a trait I admire.
We’ve reached my road, and I anticipate the jabs as we get closer to my house.
“No. Nuh-uh. No, Beckett. I can’t stay here. Nope, not happening.”
“Relax, Bundy. A flip of a switch will turn them off.”
The truck in park, I glance her way. A wave of horror coats her face.
“Did you just . . . call me . . . Bundy? As inTedBundy?”
I shrug, keeping my emotions in check and my tone steady. “Seems apropos, no?” I fully admit the name is off the cuff, but once it spilled from my mouth, I’m not taking it back or apologizing.
Her eyes become slits.
Her hands clam into fists.
Her nostrils flare with annoyance.
I almost expect her head to explode, steam billowing into the truck.
