Enemies Abroad(48)

He’s about to open his door and leave when I reach out and grip his bicep, panicked. “Don’t do anything stupid! Walk as far away from the road as you can!”

He turns back to look at me, his eyes narrowed with good humor. “Careful or I’ll start to think you might actually care about me.”

Right before he’s gone for good, I lean over. “Don’t you dare die out there, Noah Peterson!”

Then his car door slams and I’m absolutely, utterly alone. I don’t even have my crossword book to distract me.

I turn around and find Noah walking along the road. I watch him for as long as I can, and when he drifts out of view, my lower lip starts to wobble.

No.

Keep it together.

Noah is doing the brave, hard work. I’m just patiently waiting. I can be good at this. First, I count the cars that pass, and when I get to a hundred, I change course and start reciting Edgar Allan Poe poems that live in my head rent-free. When that gets boring, I decide to look in every compartment in the car, nosing around. There’s not much to work with. Some napkins. A tin of mints that have gone bad. Official-looking Italian documents in the glovebox. Nothing salacious, unfortunately.

Noah has a bag on the floorboard, and though I’m tempted to, I don’t rifle through it—on principle. I’m better than that. But, would you believe it? My pen gets caught on the edge of his bag, and I can’t just leave it like that. Clumsy ol’ me, when I reach down to get it, the pen sort of tugs open the whole bag so I can see clear inside.

Dead cell phone. Soggy hat. Wet book.

I tilt it a little to the side so I can read the title, expecting it to be that economics book he had on the plane.

Night by Elie Wiesel. A favorite book of mine to discuss in class. Judging by the little bookmark between the pages, he’s almost done. Wait… I lean over and squint so I can make out the tiny computer type visible on the scrap of paper he’s using to mark his place.

Ms. Cohen’s Eighth Grade English Class - Required Summer Reading List





Before I can help myself, I reach down for the book and carefully flip it open, extracting the wet paper.

He’s marked through most of the books on my list, tracking his progress. He’s left little notes in the margins. Liked the ending. Reminds me of The Catcher in the Rye. Favorite so far.

Dumbstruck, I replace the paper and tuck the book back into his bag, right where I found it.

Then I sit back in my seat and stare out the front window, utterly speechless.

My hands are shaking.

The gesture strikes me straight through my heart. Books are my love language. Picking up a story and getting lost in a fictional world—to me, there’s nothing better. The fact that he’s taken the time to read these books might as well be a bouquet of red roses, a mixtape left on my front doorstep, a silent speech delivered on white poster boards at Christmas time.

Thunder grows louder overhead, and I turn back over my shoulder and strain my eyes, trying to find Noah in the downpour. Without a clock in the car, I have no idea how long he’s been gone. I can’t even track the sun because of the rain, but let’s get real, it’s not like I could MacGyver a homemade sundial anyway.

I sigh and turn back, resting my head against the window and trying not to worry. Eventually, I must doze off.

Tap, tap, tap.

A finger pounds on the glass beside my head.

I jolt awake.

“Unlock the door!”

SHIT. I’m being robbed.





Chapter Sixteen





“Audrey! Unlock the door.”

Noah!

I immediately come to my senses. “Oh shoot. Yeah, okay.” I try to be helpful, but I do the thing where I accidentally engage every switch and lever on my door except the one that disengages the lock. Then finally, there. Noah opens my door and dips his head into the car.

“Come on. This guy’s going to give us a ride back to his house. Grab the bags.”

He’s what? We’re going where?

There’s no time to get answers because Noah’s already tugging me up and out of the car along with our stuff. He doesn’t so much lead me to the old idling truck a few yards away as he lifts and carries me over the puddles, opens the passenger door, and deposits me inside onto the bench seat like I’m a backpack he’s lugging along. Then he slides in after me, bumping me with his hips and makes introductions over the sound of the rain.

“Giuseppe, Audrey. Audrey, Giuseppe.”

Giuseppe—who I’m now wedged directly next to—is an Italian man I would place somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties. He has a fantastic salt and pepper mustache, wild white Einstein hair, and a nice big friendly smile. His hands are stained with oil and he smells like rubber tires. He’s wearing coveralls that barely make it over his round belly and I don’t at all get the sense that he wants to murder me, so that’s good.

When Noah introduces us, Giuseppe reaches out to shake my hand, and his grip is firm. He pumps my hand up and down so enthusiastically he moves my whole body with it.

“Giuseppe owns the mechanic shop a few miles back,” Noah explains. “He agreed to help fix our car, but he can’t do it until the morning. He’s worried about getting the tow truck stuck out in this mess. Tonight, we’ll stay at his house.”