Page 82 of Fighting

As I hitthe open highway, my frustration with Mateo grates on my nerves. I keep replaying the events, searching for a different perspective. None comes.

Mateo lay in bed, watching me spinning out, half asleep and wearing a dumb relaxed smile. He didn’t pick up on the shift in the energy or any of themanyways I put it out there.

This shouldn’t have happened.

I have only let my phone die when I’ve been with you.

I knew she wanted to go this weekend.

The angel on my shoulder shows back up and asks how often has this client claimed it was the weekend she’d leave? It didn’t happen then, you couldn’t have known.

The pesky devil says, but you should have. You would have if you paid better attention.

Pressing the foot pedal to accelerate gives a satisfying rev to the engine, and I watch the digital speedometer tick up fromforty-five to ninety-eight almost instantly. Trees and grass along the sides of the interstate blur.

“Fuck,” I scream, I clench my fists and bang the steering wheel. I am so angry I am seeing red. Oh fuck. No, literally, I’m seeing red.

The red and blue lights of a police cruiser flash behind me, and a siren wails.

“Fuck,” I silently scream as I slow. Once I’ve come to a stop on the shoulder, I dig into the glove box for my registration and my hospital ID, hoping that I don’t get one of those assholes who doesn’t consider my work essential and will dick around.

Please, I beg the universe, please let this be a decent person.

“Do you know how fast you were driving this morning, little miss? Where is the fire?” He asks, his face fixed in a smarmy smile.

Dammit. This is going to be awful.

“Good, morning officer. I prefer Doctor over little miss.” I hand over the stack of items with my hospital badge on top.

He snorts, but I hold my poker face while thinkingfuck this, you’re an asshole.

“Oh, is there an emergency that required you to drive like a surgeon headed to rescue the president?” He scoffs. “Sit tight, Doctor Ray-bin. It’ll be a moment while I check on this.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

As I wait for Officer Douchebag to return my documents, my phone rings. I silence it from the touchscreen.

Not today, Satan.

It rings again. Then again. Voicemails and text messages are rolling in one after another.

The officer returns holding my documents and a summons when my phone rings again. I touch the screen to silence it, and he places a hand on his service weapon.

Are you fucking serious, dude?

“Hands on the wheel, now,” he barks out.

I move my hands back as requested and don’t move while he peers into my vehicle, neck craning, then looks down at my ID again.

“New York plates, New Jersey resident, speeding in Pennsylvania, huh? In a vehicle this nice? This is the final roll-out of the Audi TT with all the bells and whistles. It isn’t registered to you. It’s made out to—holy shit. That real estate guy?”

Swallowing thickly, I nod. “Yes, he’s my…” I trail off unsure what we are to each other right now. He’s my friend’s brother? My boyfriend? My ex-boyfriend? Can we be exes if we were never actually a thing?

I’m taking too long to answer, and the officer arches both brows. As if on cue, my phone rings again, and Satan’s name flashes on the display. I lift my hand to silence it, breaking the final straw.

“All right, I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle, now, miss.” The last word is said with a sneer.

After a field sobriety test, a thorough search of the car, and a ride to the station in the back of Officer Douchebag’s vehicle, I’m officially miserable.

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