Page 9 of From Nowhere

“I’m going to kill thatcock,” I grumble.

Will drains the sink. “That makes two of us. It’s a loud son of a bitch.”

“Actually, if you want to know a little secret, I think a mechanic at work is interested in me.”

“Oh? Did he ask you out?”

“No.”

“Did he check out your boobs?”

“Yes, but ...” I point to my shirt.

Will squints before laughing. “Coffee?”

I nod. “I thought he was staring at my boobs, but then he gestured to my shirt. Did I mention this happened after the women’s bathroom was closed, so I had to use the men’s? There was no toilet paper,andI started my period. So Ozzy, this mechanic, fetched me toilet paper and a pad. Nothing embarrassing about that.”

Will shakes with silent laughter, hand fisted at his mouth. “Christ, Maren. How do you get yourself into these situations?”

I roll my eyes.

“And I guarantee he was looking at your boobs. You could have ‘Don’t look at my boobs’ written in blood across your chest, and men would not see anything in their pursuit of finding your nipple outlines.”

“You’re a man. Does that mean you’re always looking for my nips?”

“I found them years ago. I no longer have to look.”

“You’resofunny.”

“So let’s be real for a minute,” he says. “What if this mechanic wasn’t searching for the cherry pebbles? What if it was the coffee stain? And you think he’s interested in you, but maybe he finds you interesting, but only in the way that one cannot turn away from a train wreck.”

“Flame,” I say.

“What?”

“He looked at me like someone who can’t turn away from a fire, watching the flames. I’m hot.”

“Indeed. Nothing gets a guy horny quite like fetching toilet paper and a maxi pad for a stranger in the men’s bathroom.” Will puts his clean dishes away.

“Why must you rain on my parade? Can’t you just lie to me like a real friend?”

Will chuckles. “Sure. This Ozzy guy’s probably at home right now, jerking off to the vision of your jeans wadded up at your ankles in the men’s bathroom stall while you beg him for a maxi pad.”

I snort, covering my mouth. “You’re right. Did you say my future husband’s name is Reagan?”

Will winks and clicks his tongue twice. “Attagirl. Once you lower your standards, the world is your oyster.”

On my way to the airport to fly Ted to Chicago (my last flight with him until the end of this upcoming fire season), I pass a guy on a bike. But not just any guy. It’s Ozzy in the rain. I pull my RAV4 to the side of the road and step out when it’s safe.

He stops his fat-tire bike a few feet from the back of my dirty black RAV.

“Get in,” I say, holding the hood of my rain jacket to keep it from blowing off my head. “I’ll collapse my back seats so your bike can go in the back.”

“I’m good, but thanks.” He squints against the rain.

I chuckle. “It’s no big deal. Really, get in.”

“I can’t.” He licks the water from his lips.

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