Page 1 of She Didn’t See It Coming

Six weeks ago

Bryden Frost is running late. She has to pick up her daughter, Clara, from day care within the next few minutes or she will get a reprimand and a lateness fee.

She doesn’t care about the fee, it’s the reprimand she wants to avoid.

She knows to expect traffic at five o’clock on a Tuesday in late January, in Albany, New York, a city of about one hundred thousand, but today it’s worse than usual.

It’s stop and start. She glances down at her cell phone in the coffee cup holder to her right, anxious that it will light up with a call from the day care.

Or a text. Why do they text her when they must know she’s in the car, on her way?

She fumes behind a large truck that blocks her view so that she can’t see what’s going on ahead.

What the hell is the problem? She thinks of adorable little Clara, the light of her life, waiting for her at the day care.

Is she the only one left? No, she can’t be.

Some kids and staff stay later, kids whose parents work longer hours.

At three, is she old enough to realize her mother is late to pick her up?

To feel sad, forgotten? Have they put her in her little pink corduroy jacket already?

And is her little heart falling as all the other children are swooped into eager arms?

Or is she distracted by some kind childcare worker—Hilda perhaps, who is so caring and adept at addressing any potential hurts before they happen?

That woman is worth her weight in gold. But if it’s Sandy, she will be looking at her phone, thinking about her own plans, not caring about Clara’s feelings.

And Clara is such a sensitive thing. Her little orchid child.

She feels the crash, the shock of it, the extraordinary sound of it, even at only twenty miles per hour. She looks up in disbelief and realizes that she has plowed into the Tesla in front of her, which has come to a halt in front of a yellow light that turns red as she looks ahead of her. Fuck!

She sits there for a moment, dazed, both hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, telling herself surely it can’t be that bad.

The airbags haven’t deployed, and it probably sounded and felt worse than it was.

Her heart is racing and she realizes her breathing has become quite shallow and quick.

The person she hit is driving a fancy car, just her luck, and as she hesitates, she sees a tall man in a dark suit under an open wool coat get slowly out of the Tesla and close his door.

He looks toward her, and his eyes meet hers behind her windshield.

Then he walks slowly toward the back of his car, toward her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck . She can’t tell yet if he’s angry or not.

What strikes her most as he approaches is how good-looking he is, like a character in a film.

She scrambles awkwardly out of her own car, an older Volvo, built like a tank—it’s probably crumpled the entire back end of that Tesla.

She narrowly avoids getting hit by a passing car while she does it as the traffic has now started to move forward again.

They’re holding up the cars behind them in the busy intersection. She takes a deep breath and faces him.

He doesn’t look angry. He looks—civil. Like he’s prepared to be reasonable. Thank God. She doesn’t think she could take another driver’s rage right now. She will be apologetic. She will pay whatever it costs. It will be fine.

“Oops,” he says to her. And for a moment she can’t read him at all.

She’s too struck by his looks. He’s tall and well built and wears his good suit and coat with ease.

He’s got thick black hair, blue eyes, a slight stubble on his face.

His appearance makes her wonder what he does for a living.

There’s something edgy about him, like maybe he’s pissed off after all, but he’s trying not to let it show.

Of course he’s pissed off, she thinks—his car looks brand-new.

It’s so clean; hers is filthy with January grime.

And he’s probably late getting to where he’s going just like she is.

Then he smiles, and it transforms his face. As if he’s decided to let bygones be bygones, he’s forgiven her, he’s going to be charming, and he’s not going to make her life more difficult. She’s grateful. Her husband might be more annoyed when he sees the bill.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, flustered. She’s never been in an accident before.

“I’m late picking up my daughter from day care,” she babbles, attempting to explain, “and they texted, and that distracted me—I’m so sorry, it’s entirely my fault.

” Any hope of getting to Clara quickly has completely died away, of course.

She must call them and tell them she’s been in a minor traffic accident.

They can’t hold that against her, can they?

He continues to look intently at her, and she feels herself blushing.

She brushes her hair away from her face, suddenly self-conscious.

She wonders what he’s thinking. She’s a mom now, and usually forgets that men find her attractive.

For no reason at all, she finds herself glancing at his left hand and sees a gold wedding band on his ring finger.

That reassures her that he’s not flirting, he’s just listening.

“Let’s check the damage, shall we?” he says easily, then turns away from her and looks at the back end of his car. He bends down and studies it.

The bumper is crushed in. It looks so unsightly on his beautiful car; it looks as if he just picked it up off the lot.

She fervently hopes that’s not the case.

Her car hasn’t been washed for as long as she can remember, and she doesn’t even think to look at it for damage—she’s watching him touching his damaged car.

It’s almost tender, the way he runs his hand along the surface of the bumper.

He glances up at her, the smile is gone now.

He looks at her car and she does too. “Yours looks fine,” he says. “Mine, however—”

She’s grateful that he’s not yelling and swearing at her for destroying the back end of his car.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “Will it be expensive to fix?” And then she feels stupid for asking.

Of course it will be expensive to fix. He winces at her and she says, “Excuse me, I have to call the day care.” And then she turns away and calls Gwen, Dandylion’s director, and explains why she will be late, and to just charge her for the extra time and please reassure Clara that everything is fine, and she will be there as soon as she can. “Can you have Hilda tell her, please?”

“Of course,” Gwen says.

Gwen knows that Bryden likes the way Hilda interacts with her daughter—all the parents love Hilda. “Thank you,” Bryden says warmly, and turns back to the matter at hand. He’s waiting for her to finish her call.

“Do you want to do this through insurance, or would you prefer not?” he asks.

She doesn’t know. “I’m not sure. I’ve never had a car accident before. I don’t know how it works. I’ll have to speak to my husband about it,” she says.

He nods. “Okay. We’d better exchange information.” He gives her his name, address, phone number, and car insurance information via his cell phone. She does the same.

“I’ll take the car in tomorrow and get an estimate for the repair,” he says. “Then I’ll get back to you and we will figure things out.”

“Yes, okay,” she answers. “I’m really sorry,” she repeats. He smiles, again, and she finds herself charmed.

“These things happen,” he says. Then he gets gracefully back into his damaged Tesla and drives away.

She climbs into her own car and drives more carefully the rest of the way to the day care, thinking now about how much the repair will cost. It’s not the end of the world, they can afford it, but it will make a dent.

Then she tries to put it out of her mind in the happy anticipation of seeing her daughter.