“Who do you think I am?”
He takes a few steps toward me and my muscles tense, preparing to run. Right. Like I’m going to lead him on a chase through a corn field. I stopped running years ago.
“Denise,” he says.
Everything freezes.
Only Doug knows Denise. And I can’t think of a single sane reason Doug would be parked along a dark country road on a Saturday night, accidentally scaring the crap out of me.
Except... he doesn’t sound like Doug.
He comes closer and I shift away, moving the glare of the headlights from my front and his back to right in between, and I see who it is.
The stranger.
There’s no jacket, no Rolex. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt under an open flannel shirt, and combined with the rattrap old pickup that nearly killed me, he looks like he belongs here. Here. Not at Verre Plein. Not in that hotel room.
“You never came,” he says. There’s no inflection in his voice. He’s not angry or annoyed or disappointed. It’s just a statement.
“Well, I’m not a fucking psychopath,” I reply. Even though thoughts about what might have happened had I gone that night—and not been murdered—have kept me up.
“Me neither.” The combination of dark and light make it hard to tell, but he sounds sheepish.
I cross my arms across my chest. “How many cards did you give out that night?”
“Just one.”
For some reason, I believe him. He’s just some silly farmhand who came into town for the day, maybe a lonely birthday, maybe a sad anniversary. Just trying to make himself feel better. I can relate to that.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “I should—”
“You changed your hair.”
The words stick on my tongue. I force myself to think. Denise. Dental assistant, divorced, dogs. And, three nights ago, a redhead. The one thing I’ve learned about lying is to stick as close to the truth as you can. And since I’m never going to see this man again, I don’t see any problem telling him, “That was a wig.”
His brows lift in surprise. “Ah. And now?”
“Real.”
“I see.”
“Why were you at the restaurant?”
“Just got hungry.”
A light breeze rustles the dead corn stalks and I’m reminded again how ridiculous this is. How foolish it is to stand in the middle of nowhere with a stranger and who knows what the hell else lurking in these fields.
I rattle my car keys, breaking whatever spell made me linger. “I have to go.” Denise has to get home to feed her dogs. Or prepare for dental surgery. Or something.
“Right.” He covers the distance to my car in three long strides. “Let’s make sure you’re good to drive.”
“It’s fine.”
“I doubt that’s true. You tore over the ditch pretty hard.” He crouches down and rounds the car, checking...I don’t know. The tires, maybe. When he reaches the back tire nearest to where I’m standing, he makes a sound. “Busted,” he confirms, tapping the wheel.
“What? I have a flat tire?”
“Yeah. You’re lucky it’s just the one. Some of these old ditches still have ceramic pipe exposed. If you drive over it the way you did, they’re bound to break.”
“I only drove over it because you came out of nowhere with your lights off.”
He holds my stare for a moment. I’m not taking the blame for this. After a second he stands, just a few feet away. He’s at least six inches taller, broad and strong. I should feel afraid, but I don’t. I don’t know what I feel. Stubborn, maybe.
“I’ve got some wood in the back,” he says, nodding at his truck. “I’ll lay it over the ditch, you drive across, and I’ll change your tire.”
“Fine.”
I get back in my car and watch in the rearview as he retreats to grab a couple of two-by-fours from the bed of his truck. He lays a pair side by side, and I back up to the ditch so he can gauge where to place the next two. There’s no way for me to turn around without running over the corn, so I inch my way back over the makeshift bridge, feeling the wood sag beneath the weight. I expect it to snap at any second, but it holds out, and soon enough I’m on the road, parking just ahead of his truck.
I pop the trunk and climb out. I know there’s a spare back there, though I have no idea how to change it. I also have no interest. I’d been in two small accidents when I was a teenager, and both times my dad sent someone to deal with the car. I can drive and pump gas, that’s it. Fortunately, the stranger knows how to do more.
He grabs a few things from his truck and kicks over a couple of rocks from the edge of the road, wedging one under the front and back tires. He passes me a flashlight before crouching and feeling around the underside of the car, then positioning the jack. I shine the light on his hands, not sure what else I should be doing.
He chews on his lower lip as he works to loosen the lug nuts. “What year is this?” he asks.
“What?”
“The car. What year?”
I don’t care about cars. This one is black, I know the license plate number, and I know how to drive it. The end. “I don’t know. I got it a couple of years ago.”
“Hmm.”
He finishes with the nuts and jacks up the car so it’s raised off the ground, then stands so he can twist off the flat and fit on the spare. “First date?” he asks.
I stare at him. He’s bent to adjust the tire, but only a few inches away. I accidentally shine the light right in his eye and he grimaces. “Ow. Shit.”
“Sorry.”
He turns his face and blinks a few times. He’s hot, in a beer and baseball hat kind of way. He has a heavy five o’clock shadow, the kind I used to whine hurt my skin when the guy I was with kissed me, leaving red patches on my jaw, my neck, my thighs. Now I want to feel it. I’m in the mood for it to hurt a little bit.
He takes the flashlight. “Maybe I should hold onto this.” He tucks it under one arm as he replaces the lug nuts, the beam bouncing around the dusty metal.
“I can do it.” I reach for the light, but he lifts a hand to block me.
“No, thanks. I like being able to see.” He holds my stare, our faces too close, and I’m the first one to cave.
“Suit yourself.”
He nods and resumes working. “At the restaurant,” he says, after a moment. “That was a first date, you and the charity guy?”
“How do you know he’s a charity guy?”
“That story about Africa. With the log.”
“I knew you were listening.”
“I knew you knew.”
Another look and I see that his eyes are very dark. I wonder if he remembers I had brown eyes at the restaurant. They’re pale blue now, without the contacts. I used to get a lot of compliments about my eyes. For a while I’d dreamed of being a model, making millions selling mascara.
“Anyway.” I kick a small rock under the car. “Yeah. First date. And last.”
“You didn’t go to his place, either?”
“No. Feel better?”
He smiles.
“How long did you wait?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t answer. The visits with my father mark the longest conversations I have in any given month. Already I’m meeting my monthly average with a guy I don’t even know.