Page 9 of Pregnant in Pennsylvania

“What do you mean by ‘a ride’?”

“A designated nondrinker to drive us safely, legally, and responsibly home.”

“Cora.”

She throws up her hands. “Monty, okay? I have his cell number, and I’m going to text him when we need a ride home, and he’ll swing by in his rig and drive us.”

“Cora!” I can’t help laughing even as I scold her. “I don’t want to ride home in Monty’s tow truck! It smells like cigarettes and old farts.”

“It smells like cigarettes andnewfarts,” she corrects. “And would you rather walk home? Because I have no intention of sobering up enough to drive.”

I sigh. “Cigarettes, old farts,andnew farts.”

“Andsafe.”

“It’sMonty.”

Monty Elkhorn: forty-nine years old, lives in stained mechanic’s coveralls too small for his enormous beer belly, sporting a graying hobo-Santa beard, stinking of BO and American Spirit cigarettes…given to rambling in his heavy, grumbling voice about whatever enters his head. Monty lives alone in a single-wide about six or eight miles outside of town, in a little clearing—he calls it a “holler”—with electricity he ran himself. Lock your keys in your car? Call Monty, he’ll shim your window. Break down? He’ll tow you, or run you to the gas station so you can pick up some gas. His tow truck is a Vietnam-era military surplus two-ton truck he modified into a tow truck himself. Monty is super helpful to have around town, and we’ve all needed his help at some point, but using him a cab service seems…I don’t know. Weird.

She just waves her hand at me. “Exactly. It’s Monty.”

I sigh. “Fine, whatever.”

“Now thatthat’ssettled, go talk to Mr. Prep Academy over there.” She indicates the handsome newcomer with her drink.

“That’s judgmental. Just because he’s dressed nicely doesn’t make him a nerd.”

“His chinos look like they’ve been pressedandstarched.”

“They’re just new.”

“Go talk to him!”

“No!”

She eyes me with mischief in her eyes. “I’ll sign you up to sing again…and I’ll make you do ABBA.”

“Fine!” I huff, because I know Cora well enough to know she’ll do it, and ABBA is sacred—you don’t do ABBA karaoke unless you can pull it off, and I definitely can’t pull it off…I’m sober enough to know that much.

I run my fingers through my hair, glancing at Cora. “Is my makeup okay?”

She winks at me. “You’re sexy. Now go!”

I get up and suck in a deep breath.

I’m about to make my way to his table when I hear a smooth, warm voice. “I hope you’re not leaving already,” the voice says. “I was just coming by to see if you wanted another drink.”

I look up, and it’s him. Up close, he’s more than handsome—he’s breathtaking.