The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(5)

Three





-Cassie-





“You have got to be kidding me!” My brand new BMW made an unsettling sound on the back roads before my tire pressure light came on, blinking to tell me my rear passenger tire was dangerously low on air. I tried to rumble on, praying I’d reach a turnoff, a gas station, something on the windy, deserted road, but eventually knew any further and I’d be screwing up my car. So topping off my shit sandwich of an evening, I only have ten minutes to change a tire, drive back to the city, and get to this date. I’m squatting in my red-bottomed heels on the side of the road and inspecting the clearly flat tire as if I know what to do with it.

Spoiler: I don’t.

This is the last thing I need right now.

After leaving the office, I realized I was dangerously low on gas and needed to stop at a station. Everyone knows there are two people on this planet: those who fill their tank when they hit the halfway mark and those who fill up ten miles after the gas light goes on.

I am in group two and regretting it. If I had just filled up on my way into the office, this would have been avoided.

I vow from now on I’ll fill up at the halfway mark. Hell, maybe the three-quarters mark. Whatever it takes.

To get to the gas station closest to the office, I was forced to drive through a construction zone, adding seven minutes to my drive and, from what I can tell, a nail to my tire.

Why me?

I kick my tire, then curse when the movement reverberates through my open-toed shoes and up my leg with sharp pain. Ripping open the front door, I lean over to find my bag and pull out my phone to call Roadside Assistance, the contents of my bag spilling out across the console as I do. Adios, lip gloss I’ll never find again.

When I glance at my phone, my misery grows.

No bars.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?” I shout to the sky, fighting the tears that want to fall. Stupid, stupid tears every woman sheds when the world seems to be against her and the walls are closing in.

This is not me, frazzled and emotional. I don’t cry. I don’t let my feelings control me. I live by rules, by plans. Structure and systems keep me safe, stable, and away from emotional turmoil. But the message from my dad, my stupid, stupid panicked decision to tell him I’m coming with a date? It all has me a mess. The entire drive, my mind sorted through options to get out of the wedding, from faking an illness to hiring an escort in order to make it out of this in one piece. And now I have… I glance at my phone again… seven minutes to drive fifteen minutes to meet with a potential new match.

Taking a deep breath, I run through solutions. I need to be sensible with this, to lay out my options so I can think with a rational mind. This road seems empty with not a house or car in sight, so I can’t rely on a good Samaritan stopping to help. It’s long and windy, with steep hills and empty fields on either side. The perfect location for a slasher movie, my pessimistic librarian says from my shoulder, staring down her nose at me and tsking because I’m so unprepared.

Shaking her off, I remind myself I can do this. I’m a problem solver. It’s what I do for a living, right? I just need to figure out my options and choose one.

Option one: put on the spare and go.

Problem: I don’t know where the spare is in this car, much less how to actually change a tire. Add it to my very long list of ‘things I need to learn how to do’ alongside finally using the app I bought to learn Spanish, installing the new fancy shower head I got six months ago, and making the perfect omelet.

Option one is out.

Option two: call Gabrielle and cancel the date.

Problem: No bars, and I never cancel a date. Ever. My business relies on my promptness, my reliability. People are looking for love and have faced enough disappointment as it is. I refuse to add to it and pin my professional reputation on it.

Option three: walk up the hill a bit and pray to God I’ll get a bar so I can make a call to the expensive roadside service program I was talked into joining when I bought my car.

I guess we’ll go with that one.

Pulling my shoulders back, I head towards the top of the hill the road leads to, trying to avoid potholes and pebbles in my regrettably high heels and monitoring my cell’s range. My breath puffs in clouds in the freezing January air, reflecting the light of the rapidly setting sun. Panic creeps in again as night falls, but when I reach the peak of the hill, it dissipates with relief.

My prayers are answered when, if I hold my phone up and at the perfect angle, two beautiful bars appear in the upper right-hand corner, occasionally flickering to just one. But it’s all I need.

It’s the most gorgeous sight I’ve ever seen.

Immediately, I pull out the small laminated card with the Roadside Assistance number on it and dial, praying the connection will hold.

“Hello, this is Roadside Assistance; how may I help you?” the cheery woman on the other line answers.

“Yes, hi, this is Cassandra Reynolds. I have a flat, and I need to get it fixed.”

“We can do that. Can I get your account number?” I give her the numbers and information and then wait while she inputs it. “Thank you, Ms. Reynolds. Before I can send someone out, I’ll need you to tell me the name of the road you’re on and any nearby crossroads?” Shit.

“Uhm, I’m not so sure?”