Page 6 of Wasted On Us

I shouldn’t have taken this way to get to the garden center. It’s always clogged with traffic this early in the evening, and today is no different. The meeting with Lucy must’ve rattled me enough that I didn’t consider my route when I left work. I’ve been stuck in bumper-to-bumper gridlock for the last twenty minutes, cycling through Sirius FM and not finding anything that suits my mood. I feel like scum. Lucy has Dad backed into a corner, and it’s all my fault. He’s always so respectful of women, too. In fact, he was one of the first small business owners in Frostvale to support the local chapter of NAWBO. It would mortify him if anyone made accusations like that about his dealership. The shame would send him into an early grave. And Abuelita would never recover from hearing anything like that about her son or myself.

Lucy’s spiteful words echo in my head, a sharp reminder of my carelessness—of dipping my pen in the company’s ink, so to speak. I can’t keep letting my libido dictate my choices; it’s causing more trouble than it’s worth. My father’s harsh reprimands flash through my mind, accusations of being a slave to my heart rather than my head. He may have a point. I might just be too in love with the idea of love, caught up in the thrill of the chase and the heady rush of desire.

Regardless, I have to do better.

What happened earlier must serve as my first wake-up call, a tangible reminder of the promises I need to make to myself. I find myself focusing on the mundane details of the bumper ahead, my mind fervently crafting an oath. I swear not to let thoughts of women consume me for a whole month. Not a single flirtatious glance, not a single seductive smile. I’ll become an island, untouched by the stormy seas of random hook ups.

A mental shift like this is a challenge, a giant leap into unknown territory for a man like me. A womanizer transforming into a monk? The idea is almost laughable. Yet, as I grip the steering wheel and resolve to steer my life in a different direction, it’s a challenge I’m willing to take on. I’m determined to prove to myself, and to my father, that I can change, that there’s more to Mateo than just a love-struck fool. More than just a charming smile and a smooth talker. I have substance, depth, and it’s high time I prove it.

As I look intensely into the distance, I slam on my brakes when the car in front of me stops cold. The driver behind me isn’t so lucky. There is a sudden and loud thunk from the rear of my car, jolting me out of my thoughts and into reality. Guess I’m not stopping to get flowers for Abuelita. Craning my head around, I see a cat dart across the road several feet in front of me. That must’ve been why the first car stopped. Well, that’s nice. The cat is fine, and the guy in front of me is fine, but I’m going to spend the rest of my evening dealing with insurance companies. And that’s if the other driver even has insurance. Even though car insurance is required by law in Minnesota, a lot of drivers choose to risk being ticketed or worse.

Putting my hazard lights on, I maneuver my car to the shoulder of the road, watching in my rearview to make sure the car behind me does the same. I shift the car into park and take a minute to collect myself before undoing my seatbelt and climbing out. The last thing I need to do is get out and start flipping out on the other guy. It would feel fantastic, but I can’t bring anymore embarrassment to my family today.

Turns out I should’ve been less worried about flipping out and more worried about that promise I made to myself. The sight that greets me from behind the open door of the other car is nothing short of angelic. Petite, with a mane of silky black hair that falls in waves down her back, she might be the most striking woman I’ve ever seen. She’d be even prettier if she didn’t look like she was going to start sobbing or throwing up in the street, or both. I’ve never seen someone look so stressed out in my life. Each set of headlights that passes by makes her look like a frightened deer, and I’m struck by the terrifically inappropriate urge to kiss her right on the lips.

“Are you okay?” I motion for her to step farther onto the shoulder of the road, terrified that she’s going to get hit by a passing car, even if they are going less than five miles per hour.

“I’m fine,” she laughs, hysteria woven through her voice. “I mean, physically I’m fine. Mentally, I’m a stuffed animal left on the side of the highway. Or a plastic bag in gale-force winds. I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear that. Why am I telling you that? Here, just take this.”

She pulls a giant canvas tote bag out of the front seat of her car, her whole arm disappearing inside to look for something. I watch as she removes a massive orange sweater, a water bottle, a pair of headphones, a pack of gum, what looks like at least two crystals, and a curling iron, tossing all of it into the car until she finds her wallet, this barely held together piece of cracked brown leather. That, too, is stuffed to bursting, and after a few awkward seconds of rooting around, she produces an insurance card.

“Got it.” Taking the card from her hand, I use my cellphone to snap a quick photo of her information. “Your name is beautiful. Eden? I’ve never seen it before.”

“Thank you, I guess. My parents were always a little eccentric.” There’s a flash of a smile on her lips, and then she looks back at the two cars and immediately bursts into tears. Big, cartoonish tears alongside these goofy little hiccupping sobs. I can’t begin to explain it, but the more she falls apart, the more I think she’s the most intriguing thing I’ve ever seen. “I’m… I feel so stupid. How could I hit your car like that? We weren’t even going fast. God, I’m such a moron!”

I put one hand up between us. “It’s okay, really! I’m sorry!”

My words confuse her enough that she abruptly stops crying, tilting her head at me with a frown, eyes rimmed with mascara. “Why are you apologizing? I hityou.”

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I shrug. “There’s a sweet girl in front of me, and she’s crying. Force of habit.”

“Well, I’ve had a shit day.” She runs a hand down her hair as if to smooth it, and I have to focus on the passing traffic, so I don’t hang my mouth open and stare. “Complete and utter dumpster fire.”

“How can I help?” If she tells me someone has hurt her, I’ll roll my sleeves up and go punch their lights out right now.

“Oh, you want to help?” Eden starts, her words tumbling out in a rapid and almost breathless manner. “I mean, nobody’s ever really asked me that in quite that way before. Most people just nod and move on, but you seem different. Maybe it’s the eyes. You’ve got such kind eyes. You’re not like other guys, are you? I had this issue with my landlord, and then the whole budgeting thing, and now I need contacts, but really, you know what’s the most awful part about today? I left my lunch at home. Turkey sandwich. You’d laugh, but it’s tragic. I made it myself. Extra mayo, lettuce, the works. That’s probably the worst thing about my day. God, I’m just being silly.”

I’m taken aback for a moment by her honesty, the raw and genuine nature of her words. It’s a simple thing, a forgotten lunch, but it hits me right in the heart. There’s a vulnerability in her rapid speech, a sincerity that makes me feel like she’s sharing a part of herself she doesn’t just share with anyone.

“No, it’s not silly at all,” I reply softly, my eyes locked on hers. “Sometimes it’s the small things that get to us the most.”

She blinks, looking equally surprised and relieved that I didn’t dismiss her feelings. “Yeah, yeah, exactly! You get it.”

I nod, feeling a connection that goes beyond the words we’ve shared. She’s so refreshingly honest and genuine, unlike any girl I've ever met, and I find my heart squeezing as I look at her.

Shaking her head, she kicks at a loose rock by her tire. “I’m sorry, I was rambling.”

I circle the two cars, assessing the damage. I like what I see. “Nothing to be sorry about. I think I can help make your day a little bit better, if that’s possible.”

“Oh, really?” She draws out the last word like she doesn’t believe that anything I can offer will assuage her feelings in any way.

“My car is fine. There’s maybe a tiny fleck of white paint on the bumper, but I can get that off with a damp cloth and some elbow grease. It’s your car that’s the problem.”

“I understand.” She deflates, chewing on her lip and staring sadly at her shoe. I hate that it makes me think about how nicely shaped her lips are. The cupid’s bow draws my gaze more than I’d like it to. “I can just… deal with this myself.”

“No, no. That’s not what I mean,” I rush to reassure her. “I don’t want your insurance rates to go crazy over this. It’s just the bumper and your headlight that are damaged. The bumper wouldn’t be more than an eyesore, but if you drive with that headlight out, you’re bound to get ticketed. Both are easy repairs. And it’s a common model car, so the replacement parts are cheap, too. I’ll get it handled for you. I know a guy.”

“You ‘know a guy’?” Eyebrows raised, she makes a face I can only assume indicates the idea that I’m involved in organized crime. I roll my eyes at the assumption.

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