The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(10)

An hour later, she’s in front of my desk with a sticky note. “Here you go, Cassie.” On it in grade-school-teacher perfect handwriting is the number I requested.

“Thanks, Gabrielle.” I grab it and dial the number, walking towards the hall to take it outside.

“Hello, Roadside Assistance; how may I direct your call?”

“Hi, I have a question about my account. Last night, I was sent a truck for a flat, but the serviceman told me that you don’t change the tire, just put on my spare, and I need to take it to a separate garage to get it properly replaced. I was under the impression all of that was covered.” I try to think of the papers I signed when buying the car, and the salesman sold me on the expensive maintenance and assistance plan. What have I been paying for?

“That’s correct. We supply our customers with top-tier help from beginning to end. Even if we were unable to change the tire, you’d be going to one of our certified locations for whatever is needed. Can you give me your name so I can look up your account?”

“Yes, it’s Cassandra Reynolds. The man told me I could go to a, uh…” I dig through my clutch I brought out if they needed my account number and find the business card. “A Jeff’s Garage? On Beach and Third?”

“That’s not one of our service centers.” I hear clicking before she makes a confused noise. “Ma’am, do you have your account number on hand?”

“Yes.” I look at the card before rattling off the numbers. She makes another confused sound.

“And this is regarding a service call made last night? January 21st?”

“Correct. I was on Country Road 324. I called around 5 pm.”

“Yes, I see the call. And you say someone came and put on your spare tire?”

“Yes. What seems to be the problem?”

“Ma’am, we never sent a truck out to you.” Ringing starts in my ears.

“You did. He came and changed my tire. He came in a tow truck.”

“None of our techs work from a tow truck. If we need to tow a customer, we dispatch a separate service.”

“But he did. He was. I called!”

“I see a call logged at 5:03 last night, but it seems connection was lost before we could capture your location. We were unable to reach you or know where you were.”

“But I…” I stand there, confused, playing over the night in my mind. He pulled over and asked if I needed help. I told him he took too long and… Oh God, he looked confused. It was dark, but I remember that much played on his face, the confusion. The truck. It was white. White and… I concentrate, trying to picture it in my mind, what it looked like. I was in such a state I didn’t even pay attention, didn’t even take it in.

My mind pulls up the image—bright green lettering. Curvy words reading… Jeff’s Garage and Towing.

Well, fuck.

It wasn’t Roadside Assistance.

He wasn’t two hours late. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

He changed my tire to be friendly, and I was… rude. All of my self-taught lessons on etiquette flash in my mind with painful clarity as I remember shoving money in his hand as a tip when he tried to ask me out. I’m going to hell. That’s it. A sweet, admittedly attractive man saved me, full-on knight-in-greasy-coveralls’ed me, and I tipped him.

No wonder I’m single. Both the uptight librarian and my inner sex fiend nod, arms crossed over their chests with disappointment.

“Ms. Reynolds?” The woman chirps through the line, reminding me I’m, once again, being rude. Shit.

“Yes, sorry. There must have… must have been a miscommunication. Thank you for your time.” Before she can say anything else, I move the phone from my ear and swipe to end the call, staring at the business card in my hand. The address isn’t far from my office building, just a mile or so.

I need to apologize.





Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen today, as when I get back to my desk, Mr. Factor requires a word from me and further proves there is an obvious reason he’s still single and struggles to find a woman. And it didn’t even take the second date.

It also further cements for the millionth time my theory that all men have a real face under the mask they wear to attract women. Sometimes it works. Some even get past my questions and dating process, but most? Most out themselves before long.

But sometimes, in rare cases, it takes years—decades, even—for the true face to show.

Take my father, for example.

He was married to my mother for twenty years. The entirety of my childhood was filled with mental snapshots of a happy family, a couple in love, and their darling daughter. A family that struggled some, sure. Christmases weren’t extravagant. Clothes were hand-me-downs. But it was filled with warmth all the same—or so I thought. Sometimes I get glimpses, memories that make their way through my childish rose-colored glasses. Memories of my dad poking fun at my mom’s dinner choices or my mom crying to make things perfect for him. Despite that, my childhood was fine.

The day I left for college, my father packed his bags, leaving my mother broken beyond repair when she learned for the past fifteen years he had a woman just an hour away and had been unfaithful for nearly the entire twenty years of their marriage. It turns out he only stayed with my mom to have a fallback and avoid paying child support until I was 18. The woman he had on the side, some high-class former Stepford wife, only lasted two more years before she, too, was left in the dust. Now he’s planning to marry wife number three next month. During the divorce, it was revealed we never had to struggle those years. We didn’t need hand-me-downs or to skip the Disney World trips. My father made and came from enough money to support not one but two families, and once he got rid of the baggage holding him down, he could live up to the life his wealthy family wanted for him.