Page 13

They say fortune favors the bold.

I don’t know if it’s true, but if it is, I must not be bold.

Because I’m definitely not favored.

“Please.” I cross my fingers and close my eyes, praying to the Honda gods that have served me so well over the years to come through just one more time. “If you turn on, I promise I will get you that oil change you’ve been asking for.”

Okay, so, sure. I guess one could possibly say that I should’ve seen this coming.

I mean, has my oil light been on for about two…or five months? Yes. Have I also forgotten to turn off the overhead light a couple dozen times because I lost my phone? Also yes.

But these things happen.

And really, if anything, this speaks to a much larger manufacturing problem. We were supposed to be in flying cars by now! How have they not at least figured out how to make cars that don’t need an oil change every three months?

That’s absurd.

I’m a woman on the go, I don’t have time for this nonsense.

Actually, when I think about it, this is really Elon Musk’s fault. I bet if he actually tried to solve problems instead of spending billions to destroy democracy and the social media platform formerly known as Twitter, this wouldn’t be an issue.

And don’t even get me started on Bezos.

I hold my breath and twist the key in the ignition one more time, hoping for a miracle, but knowing it’s not going to come.

Click click click.

I hit my steering wheel, and the little beep of my horn blares in the empty parking lot with every furious punch. I only stop when my knuckles begin to ache.

“Okay, Emerson.” When it comes to panicking, on a scale of one to ten, I tend to land at about a 13.

5. It never serves me well, but I know it will be exceptionally bad if I let myself spiral now.

Freaking out in an elementary school parking lot won’t get me home.

I have to keep it together. “Calm down. You’re alright, you just need to think. ”

Like any independent adult, all I want to do is call my mom.

But she’s on a three-week cruise with her boyfriend, and I refuse to put anything on her plate that will cause even the slightest amount of stress.

If she finds out I’m stranded in a parking lot, there’s a good chance she’ll take control of the ship and steer it back stateside.

Instead, I open up my phone and scroll through my contacts, trying to find anyone who could help me get out of this situation of my own making.

I know, without a single doubt, that Keisha would definitely come get me.

But I also know that she left back-to-school night over an hour ago with plans of taking an edible or two before passing out on her couch while reruns of The Bachelorette provide her version of white noise.

I could still try to call, but she’s the heaviest sleeper I know when she’s sober.

There’s no way she’ll hear her phone after an evening of THC sleep therapy.

My phone is full of numbers, but as I pass over contact after contact, I still can’t come up with one person to call.

It’s not that I don’t have friends. I do.

And if the amount of numbers saved in my phone proves anything, it’s that I might have too many.

The problem is I don’t feel comfortable asking 99 percent of them for a favor.

I’m sure they would do it, but in my relationships, I pride myself on being the giver.

The thought of anyone seeing me as a taker makes my stomach churn and my neck sweat.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and since Nora is my sister in skincare now, she shouldn’t mind doing this.

Right?

Plus, she only lives like ten minutes from the school, so it won’t be too out of her way. I’ll bring her sushi for lunch tomorrow…and maybe a bottle of wine.

My finger hovers over her name lighting up my phone screen. All I need to do is touch it, and all of my problems will be solved.

Just one little tap…

“Emerson?” Nora answers after the second ring, concern evident in her voice.

“Yeah, hi.” My stomach curls up like a snake, twisting my nerves into knots. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably exhausted after back-to-school night.”

An easy assumption considering how absolutely knackered I am right now.

“You’re never a bother. I’m just catching up on some Housewives on the couch,” she says. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say without thinking. The nasty little habit of never being a nuisance kicks in even when I’m calling for help. “No, wait. I don’t know why I said that. Everything isn’t okay.”

“What’s wrong?” There’s a sense of urgency in her voice, and the sound of women screeching at each other in the background disappears.

For the first time since I put my keys in the ignition, I feel a sense of relief.

I knew I could count on her. “Did something happen with your Petunia Lemon order? You’re not backing out already, are you? ”

“What? Petunia? No. It’s…” I stumble over my words, almost forgetting why I called in the first place. “It’s my car. It won’t start.”

“Oh, thank god.” She lets out a relieved sigh, and the sound of angry housewives fills my phone again. “I already called customer service once today, I would not have been happy if I had to call them again.”

“Ummm…” I’m rarely knocked speechless, but even I have no idea how to respond to that. “Yeah, that would’ve sucked.”

Almost as much as being a single woman, alone in a parking lot with the sun beginning to set. I’ve watched my fair share of crime procedurals, and I’m pretty sure this is how almost all of them start.

“Tell me about it. They were about to get one very angry Nora followed up by a strongly worded email.” That might not sound like a real threat coming from most people, but Nora does have quite the talent for writing intense emails and Yelp reviews.

“Okay, sorry. Now what were you saying about your car?”

This call has gone so far left that I almost forget why I called in the first place, and all the courage I worked up to ask for help is long gone.

“It won’t start.” I rush the words before I chicken out and hang up and resign myself to hitchhiking home instead. “I’m still at school. I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if there was any way you could swing back to the school and help jump my car?”

There. I asked for help, and the world didn’t end or catch on fire.

Not even a tiny bit.

“Oh my goodness, Emerson! I’m so sorry.” Concern colors her words again and I feel a little guilty for the emotional rollercoaster I’ve sent her on tonight.

“No, please. Don’t be sorry.” I brush off her worry, not wanting to cause her any more stress than I already have. “This is totally my fault, I’m just so grateful you answered.”

“You know I’ll always answer for you,” she says, and I can’t wait to tell Keisha about this. One day I’ll be able to convince her to give Nora a chance. “But—”

Wait…

Did she just say “but”?

My stomach turns to a pile of rocks.

“I just opened my email to respond to the fire department about updated safety procedures, and I had a really strong gin and tonic when I got home,” she says. “Any other time I would come right away. Truly. Can I send you an Uber?”

“Oh my god. No.” I try to laugh, but it sounds hollow and I’m afraid if I stay on too much longer, it will turn into tears. “I can order my own Uber.”

I can, I just didn’t want to.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure and please don’t be sorry. You’re busy. I totally understand.”

“You’re the best. Please call me the second you get home,” she says. “I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t know you’re safe.”

After we say our goodbyes, I stare out my front window, trying to figure out what in the actual world just happened and what to do next.

I could just do what I told Nora I’d do and order an Uber.

I don’t live too far from here. It wouldn’t be too expensive and at least I’d be home.

But all that really means is when I wake up in the morning, not only will I still not have a solution, I won’t have a way to work either.

And that seems even worse than being stuck in a parking lot at night.

I drop my phone into the empty cup holder, lean back into my seat, and try my hardest not to cry. I think back to the YouTube meditations I did over the summer, inhaling through my nose, holding it for five seconds, and exhaling just as slow. And repeat.

Once I’m calm enough to think clearly, I reach across the center console and open my glove compartment.

I grab the leather-bound binder where I keep my registration and car information.

At one point in my adult life, I made good decisions, and I’m hoping with every fiber of my being that one of them was signing up for AAA.

I flip open the front binder and almost cry again…

but tears of joy this time. I yank out my membership card like it’s the golden wrapper sending me to the chocolate factory.

I unlock my phone and go to the website listed on the card as fast as I can.

My fingers dance across my screen, making quick work of entering my member number and login information.

I watch the circle twirl while the website takes its sweet time loading, dreaming of being home in my bed and staying there until noon… or 6:00 am when my alarm goes off.

The page finally opens and my shoulders sag with relief.

But only for a second.

Because in bold, bright red font, I only see one thing:

Account not active. Click here to restart membership.

“No! Fucking fuck fuck!” I scream into the empty cab of my car and return to using my steering wheel as a punching bag.

I usually try to keep my cursing to a minimum so I don’t let it become a habit and accidentally drop f-bombs in front of a classroom full of mini mimics.

But that’s going to have to be a problem for future Emerson, because tonight calls for more than a few bad words. “Stupid, stupid! So fucking stupid.”

I knew being an adult would be hard, but honestly? This is too much. I just wanted to eat ice cream for dinner, drink good whiskey, and watch R-rated movies.

The rest of it sucks.

Fresh out of ideas—and fucks—I grab my phone and open my Uber app. I just need to hurry up and get home before this day manages to get any worse.

If that’s even possible.

“Hey, Miss Pierce,” someone shouts from right outside of my window, nearly sending me through the roof.

I don’t scare easily, but my scream is so high-pitched, I hurt my own ears. Unfortunately, when I see who’s standing at my window, my groan is even louder.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Because of course, when I found myself in a moment where I didn’t think I could sink any lower, Luke Miller is here to witness it.