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Will:I was beginning to think you liked overpaying for tires.

I relaxed, slightly, at his easiness. I wasn’t sure what I’d been worried about. That he’d be cool maybe? Distant? I glanced at the chair in front of me. Then I headed upstairs, leaving the kitchen behind me.

Michelle:You know you sound like a tire ad.

Will:Technically I *am* a tire broker. For you.

I smiled. I wasn’t sure if it was at the dumb joke or the wordsfor you.Then I scrunched it off my face. Friends. That’s what I was going for here. The word felt hollow, but I clung to it hard.

Michelle:The roads look good—I could bring the car down myself today if that works?

Will:>:(

Now I laughed out loud.Thatfelt good.

Will:The truck will be there in an hour and a half. You can ride with the driver and take yourself home on new tires. Don’t move.

He was awfully confident. How did he know he could get the truck here so soon? Or an appointment at the garage? Clearly, he was pulling strings for me. Not wanting to risk that he was overselling—I’d never not had to wait at an automotive shop—I texted Reese to arrange for her to be here when the girls got home from school.

Then, with one last glance at that empty kitchen chair, I went upstairs to change.

I wasn’t sure why. My yoga pants and t-shirt were perfectly adequate for waiting around an automotive shop. But I found myself pulling on my favorite form-fitting jeans, a snug navy tank top, and an oversized chunky cardigan on top of that. I dug around in the closet for those ankle boots I’d worn the other night. If I was making an effort with my clothes I might as well go all the way. I tried to tame my curls, finally deciding to pin them back. I tried tucking the few tendrils that fell out back in place but eventually gave up, heading back downstairs to wait for the truck.

With over an hour left to wait, I sat down at my desk and tinkered with the blog post I’d been working on this morning for Bella Eats. It was about pantry shopping for when you can’t get to the grocery store. For the post, I’d framed the story around us being snowed in by last week’s freak early snowstorm. I didn’t say anything about how I drove my car into the ditch or how I got rescued by an irritating know-it-all.

How I’d put off fixing said car because of said know it all.

I said nothing about the man who made me feel all kinds of strange and confusing things I’d rather not face. The food ideas were good—a list of staples to keep in your pantry; the kind of sandwich spreads that mix together well; a no-knead bread anyone could make by mixing three ingredients and leaving it overnight.

But the rest—the personal note, the anecdotes about my grandmother—fell flat. It was like by trying not to say half the things my brain was thinking, the words on the screen were empty. Uninspired.

Will’s words from the coffee shop kept coming back to me. Asking me if the blog was really what I wanted to do.

Joe would have asked me the same thing, I knew.

Well, not right now it wasn’t, that was for damn sure. I slammed the laptop closed and stood up.

Really, Michelle?

Fucking Joe.

I sat down and opened the laptop again. Then I clicked over to a new page. They wanted personal? Fine. I’d get personal. Very personal. I started a new post, one about everything that had been on my mind. The car in the ditch. Will, coming to my rescue. The night at the coffee shop.

I added the photos I’d taken of Will—he’d given me permission, after all, and titled the postWHEN LIFE THROWS YOU SNOWBALLS, DRINK BEER.

I went back and re-read the post. It was good. Really good. Full of feeling. Authentic as Nona’s meatballs. I did have to tone down the stuff about Will a bit, making him a bit more anonymous and calling him a friend.

Maybe if I said it enough times, I’d believe it.

Before I could change my mind, I drew the mouse down to the publish button, hovered for a moment, and clicked it.

Then, for the second time that morning, I slammed the laptop shut.

Almost as soon as I did, I heard the rumble of the tow truck and put the post out of my mind. It was like now that I’d written that all down, I was no longer nervous about having to talk to Will. To call him to say thank you after I got this tire thing sorted.

I got up, reaching for my nice coat at the door, then hesitated.

Suddenly, I was embarrassed about how I’d dressed myself up. I was about to hop in the cab of a tow truck, probably with a big dude named Mitch with a mustache. I wiped off the smear of lip gloss I’d applied with a tissue and pulled on my bulky parka with the tricky zipper rather than the more form-fitting wool coat I’d worn that night at the coffee shop. Feeling slightly more nondescript, I stepped outside where the truck was backing up to my car. But when the door swung open, I froze. It wasn’t a Mitch or a Bob. And there was certainly no mustache.