Page 2 of Beauty and the Grease (Midlife Meet Cute #4)

Chase

Am I losing my mind? Was Jenny Dixon just standing by my car?

The woman disappeared, leaving me bewildered. I’ve never felt bewildered in my life, but this is the kind of day I’ve had. One calamity on top of another.

She looked angry, the Jenny person, if it was actually her. She definitely had been last I’d seen her. Angry. So very, very angry. And for good reason. I’m the reason our marriage dissolved.

My ex-wife’s voice pierces through the phone. The uh, second ex-wife.

I glance to the tow truck. I need to get out of here. Besides the flat, there’s damage to the car from when I veered off the road and careened into the ditch. I’m lucky I didn’t get hurt or hurt someone else.

What I don’t need is a furious Jenny while I’m dealing with my furious ex. But I need the tow more than I don’t need another angry woman. “Look, Lisa, the tow truck is here. I’m still trying to get to the conference—”

My ex (the recent one) fumes at me some more for daring to do my job. If she only knew the reality of the situation maybe she’d back off on guilting me to ditch the retreat. Especially when she expects alimony checks.

My life—why? This is not where I’m supposed to be.

Literally, not on the side of a random country road.

Literally arguing with my ex-wife while another ex-wife waits thirty feet away.

I guess I figured my forties would mean a promotion and a corner office, not a flat tire, a tow truck, and two ex-wives.

Lisa continues blaming me for not taking the kids this weekend. I called her on it and she’s not happy.

One: because she knew this work trip was in the books for months.

Two: because she delights in withholding my time with Owen and Emma.

When it’s convenient for her, she uses them against me.

She and her boyfriend want to attend some last-minute luxury river cruise on Lake St. Clair on a weekend she committed to having the kids.

She insists I’m a terrible father every time I don’t give in to her whims.

“I’m hanging up.” I end the call. I’m sure Lisa will devise additional ways to punish me. I usually concede when she makes demands because I want what’s best for the kids. I don’t want them to see us like this.

My stained suit is a problem. Coffee launched out of the cup onto my lap when I hit that canyon-sized pothole. The wet fabric makes me feel like I wet myself. Not ideal for facing what’s next. First the tow, then getting to the retreat to claw my way back into good standing with my superiors.

The tow hasn’t left, by some miracle. My sideview mirror shows no traffic (shocker), so I get out. Approaching the truck, I rap my knuckle against the driver’s side window.

The woman scowls, but the scowl can’t mar her pretty face. Yup. That’s Jenny.

The window rolls down. She has to crank it herself. “Believe it or not, this is not a joke,” she says. “I’m not a recurring guest star on the drama production that is your life.”

I hold up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m pretty stressed right now and, well, I didn’t expect to see you.”

She holds a steady gaze. “What are you doing out here? Maybe you’re trying to guest star in my life.”

Seriously, what is happening here? “Why are you driving a tow truck?” The logo on the door reads Jenny’s Auto. She’s the Jenny. “Is this…did you buy a tow truck?”

“The Beast? Yeah. This truck and an auto repair shop. Yes, I did.”

When? How? “Where?”

“Down the road in Derby.”

Derby…some dinky town north of Metro Detroit if I recall. I refocus on the truck. It’s orange. Very orange. It’s so extremely orange I’m not sure how it took me this long to notice. Yellow and red squiggles cover the side leading to— “Why is there a clown face?”

“The truck used to belong to Buddy the Clown, a local entertainer. He retired from towing and then started a clowning business. Then he retired from that and had a hard time selling the truck, given the custom paint job. Jackpot for me.” Her expression flattens.

“Look, do you want a tow or not? I’m on a tight schedule.

” Her lip twitches, which used to be her tell.

But it’s been what, seventeen years since we were together?

How should I know if she’s being straight with me?

“I need the tow. And a rental car.”

She nods, then starts the truck. She backs the tow to align with my car. For the first time today, the noise in my head deadens.

When did she learn to do this? Last I knew, she worked at a car dealership in Rochester Hills.

One of the big ones with mostly not embarrassing TV commercials.

She worked in the office, but maybe she learned to hitch a tow on the side?

When we were together, she worked at an art gallery.

She wore trendy clothes and rented expensive outfits for gala events from some website that did that sort of thing.

She exits the truck. She has on a stiff work jacket and well-worn cargos.

I’m not judging. Her pants aren’t coffee stained in all the wrong places.

I watch in not a small amount of awe as she points a clunky remote control at the truck, which lowers a beam that connects the tow to the car.

Then the front wheels lift. She finishes by securing the car with sturdy straps at several points.

She appears in front of me as if watching her wasn’t just short of amazing. “Where are you headed?”

I scratch the back of my neck, trying to avoid looking at her directly. But I can’t miss the fitted T-shirt beneath her jacket. It looks soft. She looks soft, in a good way. Good. She looks good. “My company is running a retreat at some place on a lake.”

“Lots of lakes around here.”

“Yeah. I’ve got the address in my GPS.”

“Is it much farther?”

I shrug. “Maybe ten miles? Twelve?” Honestly, I lost track. I should have never peeled off the main road, but Lisa called and I figured back roads would be safer given I expected a tough conversation. Then I lost GPS signal. Not like I would have heard the directions over Lisa’s yelling.

She clears her throat. “I should probably ask, are you okay?”

I almost laugh. Okay? Hardly.

“I mean your head. Your neck. Did you get whiplash? Bonk your noggin?”

“Oh. No.” My hand goes to my forehead on instinct. “I’m okay.”

“Well, let’s head out.”

I look at her.

“Get in the truck,” she says.

Oh. Right. I can’t drive my car.

“Unless you have someone else to give you a lift. Maybe one of your coworkers at the retreat?” She looks hopeful for a second, like maybe she can leave me here. Stranded.

“Nope.” I move past her to the passenger side of the truck, er, the Beast, she called it. “Just take me to your place. Your, shop, I mean.” I’m on the other side of the truck now so she can’t see my flaming red face.

This is the worst day of my life. Wait, no. Not even close. Coincidentally, that day also involves Jenny.

She hoists herself into the driver’s seat like a pro.

“How long have you been living out here?” I ask.

She starts up the truck and eases us forward. “About a year.” She smacks a button on the stereo and a loud pop song blasts out.

I shut up and let her drive.

After five minutes, a sign noting Derby’s town limits comes into view.

Older homes line the road. Nothing fancy, but well-kept and tidy.

A church and a boat rental shop pass by.

Then a downtown strip with a few restaurants, an optometrist office, a florist. At the corner, an old brick building displays the Jenny’s Auto logo on a large, shiny sign.

The script is like a 1950s diner or something, but looks new.

She expertly takes the corner wide and parks behind the shop. A fence encloses the lot and stretches back a block with room for parked cars and a driveway leading into the repair facility.

Neither of us gets out. Suddenly, being in a hurry feels less important.

“This really is a coincidence?” she asks. “You on the side the road like that?”

“I swear.”

“How did you find my shop?”

How did I find Jenny on a random road in a part of the state I’ve never driven? A question I’d like answered. “The insurance company said they’d contact roadside assistance. They called you. Or whoever answered the call.”

We sit there some more as a sheen of soft rain pelts the front window. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring,” she blurts. “What happened?” She claps a hand to her mouth. “Don’t answer. It’s not my business.” She lunges for the door.

My hand instantly goes to my ring finger and the light groove that hasn’t disappeared. “We separated three years ago. Two years divorced.”

Her hand stalls on the door handle. “Lisa?”

“Yeah, Lisa.” She knew Lisa. “Two kids.” So she doesn’t have to ask.

Her posture softens. “Oh. Kids.”

I wait for more, but she pushes out of the truck.