“That’s right,” I say, trying to sound positive. Upbeat. Cheerful about the possibilities for the future, instead of terrified that one wrong move—like buying a shitty beater as a getaway car—could upend months of planning. “We’re going to start over. Just me and you. No more angry Jerry, no more strict rules. Just me and you and a new start.”
She stares out the window before looking at me, fresh tears in her eyes. “But, Mama…”
The look on her face makes me want to climb over the seat and hold her in my lap, kiss the fear away. “Yeah, baby? What is it?”
“Does that mean we’re not going back for my iPad?”
I laugh out loud at that. “Sweetie, we’re not going back for that old iPad. But I promise you, we’re going to get you a brand-new one, okay? It will take us a little time, but the first special thing I buy when I get a new job will be an iPad.”
“You’re going to get a job?” Her eyes widen.
I haven’t worked in years. Since Jerry and I got married, and he rescued me from the life of a single mom working as a waitress. Never enough money to cover babysitters, never enough sleep, never enough anything.
I would say it was a nice two years of comfort, but everything comes at a cost.
I know better now.
There really is no such thing as happily ever after.
“What are you gonna do?” Zoey asks. “Are you going to work at a car place like Dad—I mean like…”
I shake my head. “No, honey. Jerry works at an auto dealership.”
He owns three, actually. Which is why the fact that I had to buy a beater from a used car lot to escape him is just about the best example of irony I can think of.
“I’m going to do something different, something fun.”
“Like work at a carnival?” she asks, getting excited.
“No, baby. Not a carnival.”
“Mommy, I’m hot.” ZoZo wipes a hand on her face. Little beads of sweat gather on her upper lip.
“Come here, baby, have a sip of my water.” I reach between the seats to hand her my water just as a beat-up–looking truck pulls out of traffic and parks behind me on the shoulder.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Morris.
I can’t believe he’s here.
Part of me doesn’t know what to say, what to do. How to get out of the car and deepen the debt I owe to this man.
But then I get a look at the guy getting out of the car.
It’s not Morris. This man is small, wiry, and he’s looking my car over in a way that makes me feel instantly on edge. He’s sizing us up.
My heart starts to race. “Zoey, stay in the car,” I command. I can’t roll the electric windows up, but I flip the fob as I get out to lock Zoey in the car.
I get out of the driver’s door and step onto the gravel shoulder. I pull my sunglasses over my eyes so I can see the man through the glaring sunshine. I wave a hand at him, motioning as if to tell him to move away, not to come closer.
“We’re all set here,” I call out. “Thanks anyway.”
He nods, indicating he’s heard me, but he doesn’t stop. He walks a little closer, never pulling his eyes from me until he ducks his head to peer inside the car.
Zoey has climbed out of her booster and is sitting in the back seat, peering at us through the open window.
I want to scream for her to get away from the window, but so far, the guy hasn’t done anything to trigger my intense reaction. I don’t want to make a situation that’s not bad—at least not yet—turn that way.
“Broke down, huh?” he says, clearly ignoring what I just said.
“We’re just fine,” I tell him. “Just a little car trouble. My husband’s on his way.”
I lie on instinct because first, someone is on his way, and two, the way this skinny, shifty man is looking at my daughter is more than making the hairs on my neck stand on end. I feel sick with a worry that can only be described as fight-or-flight. I want to take a picture of his license plate and call the cops, scream for help…but there’s no reason for that just yet.
Maybe too many years with Jerry have made me overly suspicious. I wasn’t polite or even friendly with Morris, and he’s a complete stranger on his way to help me.
There are good ones out there, I remind myself.
“Husband’s not here now, though.” He walks closer to the car, boldly meeting my eyes.
Then he doesn’t say anything. He just stares like a hungry wolf deciding whether to kill or play with his prey. He’s already past my bumper, which means Zoey is halfway between us.
“You need to leave,” I say loudly. “We don’t need your help. Just go.”
“That’s not very friendly of you,” he says, flicking a glance toward the car. “Hot day. Your little girl shouldn’t be locked inside that car. Why don’t you bring her out here in the fresh air?”
I reach for my phone but realize I didn’t grab it. In my rush to confront the man, I only grabbed the key fob. I clutch the car key in one hand and think fast. Traffic is flying past us, cars hazardously close.
If I stay beside the car and this fucker tries anything, cars passing by might not be able to see us, to witness anything.
If I walk backward, toward the front of the car, I’ll be in the line of sight of drivers as they go by. I might be able to attract some attention waving for help. But doing that will put me farther away from him. And from Zoey.
“Listen, asshole!” I shout, trying another tactic. “You need to fucking leave! We don’t want your help!”
The man tilts his head before lunging forward and jiggling the door handle.
Zoey lets out a scream, and I follow, lurching toward him.
Just then, an enormous black pickup truck screeches up behind us, parking behind the beat-up truck. Gravel dust is kicked up by the enormous tires, and through the cloud, I make out a familiar beard and neck tattoos. I can see my biker is in the passenger seat.
“Morris!” I scream.
I don’t know who’s driving, but right now, it could be Jerry himself behind the wheel for all I care.
The passenger door flies open, and Morris is walking toward me, his heavy boots hitting the pavement in time with my heartbeat. I immediately want to rush into his enormous arms, but I can see he’s sizing up the situation.
“What’s going on here, baby?” He is speaking to me but staring holes in the stranger. “We got a problem?”
Morris doesn’t even have to try to look menacing. The sweet man who gave me advice about picking a hot dog could blister the paint off a wall with the look he’s giving this strange man. Something in my chest catches.
Not fear, but pride.
He’s doing this for me.
Protecting me.
Protecting us.
The stranger steps away from my car door and holds up his hands. “Just a good Samaritan stopping to help,” he explains. “Looks like you’ve got this under control now.”
He flits a glance back to me and then looks right through my car window, back at Zoey.
“It’s a hot day for a little girl to be stuck in a car,” he says, somehow making it sound like an explanation.
“Why don’t you let me handle my business,” Morris says, his tone menacing. He strides up to the man and raises his thick eyebrows in a challenge. “You wanna leave, or should I make it so you’re the one who’s stuck by the side of the road? Doing a lot less breathing?”