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  “Jesus Christ! You scared me. What are you doing sneaking up on people on the side of a highway? That’s a quick way to get yourself killed!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, I’m not all that worried ‘bout it. I was actually tryin’ to help,” the seemingly harmless man stated. “I’m Mick. I’ve been behind ya for a stretch and saw smoke coming out from under yer hood back there since the last exit. Thought ya might be overheatin’, so I slowed down and pulled off after ya. I live in MacClenny, just off the next exit.”

  “Oh. Well thanks, I guess. But I can handle it. I have it under control,” I replied dismissively with an undercurrent of injured male pride.

  “Nonsense. I see yer Arizona tags, which means you ain’t from ‘round here. And unless ya got one of them fancy Triple A cards, looks to me like you got yerself in a little situation. Why don’t you catch a ride with me into town and I’ll call my mechanic buddy? We can ride him back out here to take a look,” he insisted, gesturing over to his vehicle.

  I took a moment to really take him in. He was middle-aged and wearing a mesh University of Florida hat that he’d probably been wearing since 1985, his salt and pepper hair peeking out from underneath. His skin was tan and weathered, like he’d been working outside all day every day for most of his working life. He was a skinny guy and a few inches shorter than me, but I was used to that. He was just staring at me awaiting a response, all the while rolling and twirling a toothpick from the corner of one side of his mouth to the other, back and forth again and again. Willing myself out of the toothpick trance, I answered him.

  “Are you serious?” I said, shocked at his generous, albeit weird, offer. “You don’t even know me. Why are you helping me?” People just didn’t do this kind of thing where I came from.

  “Somebody helped me once. Let’s just say I’m paying it forward or whatever. Plus, you got an honest face and a crucifix ‘round your neck. It’s the Christian thing to do,” he replied with a twangy country accent that I didn’t remember people in Florida having.

  Weighing out my options in my head, I paused. I was definitely in a jam and this guy was offering to help. I didn’t feel threatened at all, so I figured, what the hell? Why not?

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I would love a ride into town. MacClenny, you said?” I asked, but I don’t know why. It didn’t matter. I was stuck and this nice, small town guy was actually throwing me a bone.

  Pleased with my acceptance of his offer, he responded excitedly. “Yes, sir-ee. A buddy of mine is a real good mechanic, been taking care of my whole family’s cars for years. He’ll do right by you with his price too. Where are ya headed, anyway?”

  Anywhere but here, I thought as I let the hood slam down, but I told him anyway—what harm could it do? “I’m actually headed to Daytona Beach.”

  “Oh yeah? What brings you to Florida from Arizona?” he asked, actually seeming interested.

  Trust me, man, you don’t even want to know.

  I wondered in my head if anyone could actually look at me and tell what awful things I had done. “I just need a fresh start,” I mumbled, not making eye contact. “I went to Daytona Beach once on a family vacation and liked it, so I figured it’s as good a place as any. Do you mind if I grab my bags and take them with us? It’s everything I’ve got and I’d prefer not to leave my stuff on the side of I-10.”

  He nodded and after retrieving my whole life, which was all folded, tucked, and secured into two duffle bags, I put them in the back of the old man’s pickup truck and hopped into the front seat. The cab smelled like sweat and dogs, but actually wasn’t filthy inside. I was pleased not to see a rifle mounted to a gun rack in the rear cab window, but then thought myself an asshole for even thinking it was a possibility. I was a pretty judgmental person, but the majority of the time, my assessments were correct. I’ve always been an excellent judge of character. You learn a lot by people watching at a pub your entire life. I had over fifteen years of exposure to hone my people reading skills. That skill had won me many fights and ended many friendships in my short life.

  Once we got rolling, I noticed that Mick had sports talk radio blasting through the speakers. I hated talk radio. Why would you ever want to listen to people arguing back and forth instead of music? It didn’t even matter what kind of music; any music would be better than this. I connected with music more than anything else in life. Besides fighting, anyway. I could listen to a song twice and know all the words. I could feel the melody and notes seeping into my bones, right to my core. Music and fighting were the only things I had left any more. They both served as a way for me to escape, a sort of therapy.

  As I tried to drown out two men arguing over who the Jacksonville Jaguars should draft for their first pick, I zoned out, staring out the window at nothing but trees. I thought about that day, the day that changed my world. I will never ever forgive myself. I saw red, heard nothing but a train barreling towards me, and just snapped. And all for nothing. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t fast enough. Now I’m haunted. I’m broken, damaged, and lost.

  I’m nothing.

  “Here we are,” Mick barked.

  I was jolted from my self-loathing daze by the old man announcing that we had apparently arrived. He wasn’t really that old, though, I guess. Old enough to be my father probably. As I looked around, I saw that we weren’t at a car repair place at all. We were at someone’s house. A beat up double wide, to be more specific. There were no less than ten broken down, rusted vehicles scattered around the yard with random hoods up, tires missing, and doors absent. It looked like a junkyard. I guess he could tell I was confused by our arrival at someone’s home as opposed to a garage.

  “Oh, don’t worry. His garage is out back. He works on cars out of his home garage,” Mick reassured me.

  Naturally. I’m here in the middle of Podunk nowhere, surrounded by nothing but country. Why should I be shocked that he works out of a shed in his yard?

  “Bubba! Buuuuuhhhhhbbbbbbaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” he screamed. “Are you back there?”

  Bubba? Are you fucking kidding me? Have I been warped into the Redneckville, USA, twilight zone or what? All we need now is a couple of pit bulls. And before I could even complete the thought, a huge ass dog came sprinting out from behind the trailer, running at full speed, drool slinging out of both sides of his wrinkly mouth, teeth showing like sharp daggers directed straight for my jugular. I hear Mick shout, “Heel, Duke! Whoa! Sit!” and the dog just stopped dead in his tracks.

  What. The. Fuck?

  “Well, meet Duke. He looks scary as hell but he’s really just a teddy bear in a pit bull costume. He couldn’t hurt a fly. Duke, this is…well, shit, son. I guess I never got yer name.”

  I immediately looked down at the front of my pants to make sure I hadn’t pissed myself and walked slowly over to the dog. He licked my hand and nuzzled up against my thigh. Hmph. Strange. I’m so not a dog person. “Drew,” I said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “My name is Drew.”

  I followed Mick and Duke around the corner to see a man bent over the hood of a bright red Chevy El Camino. He was wearing coveralls and a NASCAR hat and turned around to greet us while hocking a wad of chewing tobacco out onto the ground.

  Seriously, could this whole scene be any more cliché? I guess he could be missing some teeth.

  The man appraised me calmly, starting at my shoes and eyeing me all the way up to my eyebrows, which towered above his own, before he finally spoke. “Well goddamn, Mick. Where’d ya find this jolly green giant? I ain’t never seen nobody so huge in all my days. What the fuck do you eat, man?”

  “Anything I can find, sir,” I answered with a smile.

  “Bubba, this here young man is called Drew,” Mick interjected. “He’s traveling through from Arizona on his way to Daytona Beach and broke down on the side of I-10. So, here we are. Ya got some time to ride up with us and take a look?”

  “Aw hell, I’m up to my elbows with this El Camino’s horseshit transmission. But I always got ti
me for you, Mick. Lemme just wash my hands and we’ll head out.”

  “Thank you, sir, Bubba, is it?” I asked as I reached out my hand to shake his.

  “That’s me; nice to meet ya, man. Sucks to conk out on the highway. We’ll get ya fixed up in no time. What do ya drive anyway? I hope it’s not some foreign piece of shit,” he said, obviously not having a care in the world that he could potentially be offending me.

  “No sir. I drive a 2008 Tahoe,” I responded with a grin.

  “Well thank Christ for that,” he spit out. And we were off.

  We all piled into the truck, Bubba wedged in the middle of Mick and me, which couldn’t have been comfortable. I wasn’t a small man to begin with, not to mention the awkwardness of three grown ass men to be sitting so close to each other. I just stared out the window the entire trip. We didn’t have trees like this in Phoenix. I was in the sticks for sure, but we did pass some fast food places and I noticed that they actually had a nationally known coffee shop in this little hick town, so it couldn’t be that bad.

  A short time later, we arrived back at my truck. Bubba walked over to it and asked me to pop the hood. I did as he requested and the second it was raised, a cloud of smoke followed. Even after over an hour of sitting there, it was still smoky as all hell. I knew that wasn’t good.

  Bubba knew before he even had a tool in his hand that it was a busted radiator. He let me know that it was “gonna cost a purdy penny” and said that he would have to order one in, which would take a day or two to arrive.

  What in the hell am I going to do for two days? I started to pace around, wondering how in the hell I had managed to get myself into this situation.

  “Well, I suppose you can stay with me until it comes in,” Mick offered, coming up to stand close to me. “We got a spare room.”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t dare impose on you like that,” I said charitably, feeling a little panicky at the thought. “You don’t even know me. I appreciate the offer very much, but isn’t there a hotel nearby or something?” I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone else. Never again.

  “Hogwash! You’ll hole up with me. No sense in payin’ for a room when I got a perfectly fine one for free.”

  “What about your wife, your family? Won’t they care if you bring some stranger back home with you?” I questioned, noticing his wedding ring.

  “My ol’ lady won’t care a bit. She’ll be as happy as a puppy with two peckers to have some company. Our kids are all gone. We’re what they call ‘empty nesters,’ ya see, so she gets bored with just talkin’ to me all the time. You’ll love her!” he declared, patting me with a firm hand on my upper back.

  “If you’re sure she won’t mind,” I said again. “I really don’t want to impose.” And I didn’t. The idea of staying at this guy’s house for two or more days scared the shit out of me. I wanted to be a far away from Phoenix as possible, as fast as possible, and I ended up stuck here? I didn’t even know where here was.

  We walked back over to Bubba, who was still bent over under the hood tinkering around.

  Bubba called a local guy he “always uses” to tow my truck back to his “shop” so he could get a closer look at everything. He told me that the radiator was definitely shot, my main head gasket on the motor was blown, and that I could really use new front brakes. I told him to go ahead and fix all of it and to please change the oil as well. He never even asked me how I was going to be paying him, which made me think these people were awful trusting…but whatever. I knew I was good for it.

  We drove to Mick’s house, which was about three miles away from Bubba’s, way down a dirt road, and I was relieved when we finally pulled up to a quaint little brick home with a nice wraparound front porch. It even had a bench swing mounted up. Flower beds were in full bloom all in front of the house and they were certainly patriotic—there was an American flag hanging next to the door and a yellow ribbon on the front door. I couldn’t help but think that this is what a house was supposed to look like. Not just a house, but a home. I’d never really had one of those.

  Mick walked in the front door with me following close behind him with my bags. “Joan? I’m home!” he called out. “And we’re gonna have a guest for dinner!”

  She walked around the corner saying, “Oh? A guest, huh?” She gave me a welcoming smile as she dried her hands on the front of the apron she was wearing.

  I reached out my right hand, but she just came in straight for a hug. Okay, we’re doing this.

  She was so short, maybe 5′2″, and dainty. She looked like she could be Jennifer Lawrence’s mom, like an older version of her. I’d bet anything she was gorgeous when she was younger. She had kind eyes with crow’s feet wrinkles around them and a warm smile. And she hugged me like I was her family, firm and true, with little rubs on my back during the embrace.

  “Pleased to meet you, son. I’m Joan, but you already heard that, huh?” she asked as she hugged me tight.

  “Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet you too. I’m Drew. Thank you so much for welcoming me into your home,” I said appreciatively as I broke the hug and stepped back.

  “Not a problem. I love visitors. Why don’t you boys go wash up and relax for a bit? I’ve got two chicken pot pies in the oven and by the look of your size, we’ll be spoonin’ in to both of ‘em,” she said, giggling at herself.

  Chapter Three

  BREE

  We didn’t get through ten steps of our short hike down the tucked away path and up the sand dune to the secluded north beach before Sue started bitching.

  “WHY did we decide on the north end? I’m going to break my leg before we even get there,” she whined. “There’s plenty of good beach that’s not all the way in Katmandu!”

  I laughed aloud. “It’s Timbuktu,” I corrected her, bending down to pick up my flip flops and continuing the walk through the sand barefoot.

  “What?”

  “It’s Timbuktu, not Katmandu. The expression is ‘All the way to Timbuktu,’ because it’s really far away,” I explained.

  “Whatever. How’s B.F.E.? How about that expression for you? Because that’s where you’re taking me. Bum Fucked Egypt!”

  I slowed down to let her catch up with me, relishing in the feel of the sand between my toes. Turning back to glance at her, I couldn’t help but shake my head.

  “Why DID you decide to wear high heels to the beach?” I asked for what I swear was the eighteenth time. “That’s just stupid. And we’re going to north end because I don’t want to deal with people today. It’s way more private up here without tourists and teeny boppers. I seriously just need to relax, unwind, and have girl talk with you.”

  Stopping dead in her tracks, she looked up and smiled at me. “Aww, you miss me,” she gushed. “Well, that’s all you had to say. And these aren’t high heels. They’re Lilly Pulitzer espadrille wedges. And they’re worth it!”

  “If you say so. I do miss you,” I confessed. “I’m just so over working in the gym all day surrounded by nothing but testosterone and douchey egos. I need some girl time,” I declared as I linked my arm with hers for the remainder of the walk.

  “Oh, you love it! You can’t tell me that you don’t at least enjoy staring at hot bodies day in and day out a little bit. Shit, can I have a job? I’m getting hot and bothered just thinking about it,” she said in jest, fanning her face with her hand. “I probably wouldn’t get much work done though. Especially not on the days when Brock Woods is in there. My God, I would drink a cup of his bath water!”

  “SLOANE LEIGH ASHWELL!!! You are not serious that you have a crush on Brock Woods! That guy is the biggest asshole in Fernandina. Eww! He is so not boyfriend material!” I exclaimed, scowling.

  “Who said anything about a boyfriend? I’d just like to get naked and sweaty with him. I heard he’s hung like a mountain yak, too. The girls at the salon call him Tripod,” she said, laughing at herself.

  We had reached the top of the dune and the calm horizon came into view. It never got o
ld.

  “I never knew mountain yaks were hung,” I commented. “When’s the last time you saw a well-endowed mountain yak? Or any mountain yak, for that matter?”

  “Whatever,” Sue dismissed. “Let’s set up our chairs over there.”

  We trekked over to the area she’d pointed to and set up our chairs. As I staked my umbrella anchor into the sand, I chuckled to myself at my silly friend and all of her constant “Sue-isms.” She was hilarious, constantly saying things wrong with complete confidence. I always corrected her. She always replied, “Whatever.” I wish I was half as easygoing and comfortable in my own skin.

  I was so lucky to have her in my life. It scared me to think of how lost and lonely I would be if Sue wasn’t my best friend. Liam and my Dad were great but I just couldn’t talk to them like I could with Sue. I often wondered what kind of relationship I would have with my mother, were she still alive. I had to learn about periods and tampons from Sue. She taught me everything female. What I knew about sex, I learned from listening to Sue and all of her adventurous escapades. She loved boys and loved sex and wasn’t bashful about talking about every graphic detail.

  As I settled my beach chair, she took off her cover up and I was instantly reminded why men were so drawn to her. She’s ridiculously gorgeous. She had olive skin from her mother, crystal jade green eyes from her father, beautiful, naturally curly hair, and a flawless body with just the right amount of curves. Where I have to watch what I eat and workout consistently, she eats like she has four assholes and hasn’t broken a sweat from a traditional cardio routine since we were required to run a mile in high school P.E. class. I supposed it was only natural to compare. I didn’t normally hate the way that I looked, but in that moment, my pale white skin, tall, lanky frame, and straight brown hair seemed inferior. God, if she wasn’t my best friend, I would completely hate her.

  “You seriously aren’t at least a little bit attracted to Brock Woods?” she squawked in disbelief as she laid her towel down over her lounge chair.