Page 15 of Truck You

Apparently, honesty in advertising doesn’t apply when hunting for a place to live in southern Ohio.

I’m walking through the fifth rental house of the day—and I use the term house loosely—and just like the last two I looked at, it’s nothing like described. Large open concept kitchen means a previous tenant knocked the interior wall out. Private lot on a lake means off a dirt road next to a pond in the middle of nowhere, where no one will find your body should Jason fromFriday the Thirteenthcome crawling out of said lake. And my favorite is onsite security. Translation—a dozen dogs that bark at every leaf that falls from the surrounding trees.

Every rental property I’ve looked at within a ten-mile radius of Beaver is a rundown trailer that looks like it’s barely holding together.

Have these people ever heard of apartment complexes?

I smile at the elderly lady that was kind enough to show me around and tell her I’ll think about it. More like I’ll have nightmares about those dark stains on the carpet in the living room. Someone needs to buy her a steam vac.

At least the hotel I’m staying at is nice, but if I get this job, I’ll need to find a long-term solution to my living arrangement. The hotel is too expensive, not to mention I don’t want to drive that far to work every day.

The job. Why didn’t I tell Mac the truth on Wednesday?

Because you’re a chicken shit. That’s why.

I learned a long time ago that people handle what I do for a living better after I prove myself rather than telling them up front that I race cars and am an obsessed gearhead.

That never seems to go over very well. Especially not with men who also race cars and are obsessed gearheads. So, I didn’t tell Mac the truth.

I didn’texactlylie to him. Not really. I just omitted the real reason I’m in town. I always omit my truths to strangers. Although can I really call Mac a stranger after the way he kissed me in that dark alley?

Leave it to me to complicate matters by letting him kiss me. I feel my face heat at the thought of his lips pressed against mine and his rough hands gripping my neck. A shudder runs through me at the memory.

After shutting the car door behind me—and locking it for my own safety—I look in the rear-view mirror and press my hands to my cheeks. My face is bright red just from thinking about Mac.

I start the car up and get out of there as quickly as I can. I’m ready to forget this day ever happened.

Thankfully, the drive back to Jackson is uneventful. There’s not much in the way of traffic on these roads. I truly am in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio.

That is, until I enter Jackson.

The streets of Jackson are even busier tonight than they were when I arrived on Wednesday. I thought opening night of the Apple Festival was busy, but that has nothing on a Friday night. I’m forced to drive around the hotel parking lot several times before I finally snag a parking spot.

I debate between going back to my room and eating the leftovers from last night’s dinner or hitting the food trucks at the festival. The spicy aroma from the steak sandwich with fresh-cut fries truck assaults my nose for the hundredth time since I’ve been here, and the festival wins.

It’s still early for dinner. It’s barely past four o’clock, so I decide to walk around before grabbing some food. If I’m going to eat greasy carny food again, I could use the exercise.

At the end of one street, there’s a stage that’s gathered a large crowd. The stage is empty, but in front of it are several tables lined up with pies. Lots and lots of pies.

My eyes land on the hand-painted sign just off to the side that readsThe Apple Festival’s Annual Apple Pie Baking Contest. An apple pie baking contest? I just died and went to heaven.

I’m not a huge eater of sweets, but I can’t resist apple pie. It doesn’t even have to be a good apple pie. I’ll still eat it above anything else.

There are seven contestants, each has at least a dozen pies on their respective tables, with a placard that says buy it by the slice. I let out a low groan. Best. Festival. Ever.

The contestants are busy cutting their pies while people gather around their tables. I see a large blue ribbon hanging on the edge of an elderly woman’s table that says first place in big, bold gold letters.

“Would you like a slice, dear?” Her sweet, slightly raspy voice draws my attention away from the pies I’m drooling over and to the woman standing behind the table. She’s a few inches shorter than me with bright silver hair that’s cut short and spiked on top, making her look like the coolest grandma ever. She has kind eyes and a gentle smile. The deep crinkles around her eyes and lips suggest she’s spent a lifetime smiling.

Even if I wasn’t a lover of apple pie, I couldn’t say no to that smile. “Um, yes. Of course.”

She grabs a paper plate and starts to scoop up a piece.

“Wait.” I reach my hand out to stop her. “Can I have that piece?”

I nibble on my bottom lip as I point to a piece where the pie juices and sugar spilled over the edge while baking, making the crust extra crispy and extra sweet.

Her smile grows. “I like a woman who can recognize the best damn piece in the dish.”

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