Page 47 of Love in the Stacks
Slowly, she leans forward, moving until her head rests against my chest. She still has her seat belt fastened, and it stretches as she shifts. I keep one hand connected to hers, wedged between our bodies, and the other I move to her back, caressing up and down.
We sit this way for several minutes. I breathe in and out slowly and steadily. Her breath starts out ragged, but soon syncs up with mine. Her pulse slows, too, back to a healthy tempo.
The circumstances suck but having her in my arms is everything. Protecting her. Helping her feel safe. My heart aches with the need to be there for her like this, be this person for her, always.
Finally, she sits up. “Thank you,” she says, not meeting my eyes. Her face is pale, her exhaustion clear. I brush a strand of hair from her forehead.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask gently.
She nods hesitantly, and I wait. She clears her throat. “It was a panic attack.”
“Have you had them before?”
She nods again, but I don’t press. Then, “I’m so sorry, Adam.” She finally meets my eyes, tears welling in hers. “Isyour car okay?”
“Hey,” I say softly. “It’s fine. Just a flat tire.” I smile at her. “A really, really flat tire.” She smiles timidly back, and I ask, “Areyouokay?”
“I’m embarrassed,” she admits. “You let me drive your car, and I messed it up. Then I had a panic attack in front of my coworker…” She trails off, looking away again.
I use my thumb to gently nudge her face back toward mine. “Maybe,” I say, “you didn’t have a panic attack in front of your coworker. Maybe you had a panic attack in front of your friend.”
She stares at me, her green eyes watery. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I think I did. My friend.” Her mouth tips up in a miniature smile.
Even this small concession, this small victory, thrills me. The elation spurs me to action.
“Alright, enough of this,” I say. “I need to find the closest tire place and put on the spare.”
Nicole grimaces, guilt flashing across her face. “How can I help?”
“You can help by resting.” I consider a minute. “But not in the car. I don’t want the jack to fall. Wait here.”
I pull the keys from the ignition and hop out of the car, circling around to the trunk. I open it and shuffle the suitcases around until I find what I need: a beach towel—clean, not sandy, because it’s been a while since I’ve been to the beach, but of course it’s in here anyway because, yuh know, Florida, where having a beach towel in your car at all times is practically the law—and a folded up beach chair. I walk closer to the line of trees bordering the shoulder and set up the chair. Then, I throw the towel over my shoulder and approach the openpassenger side door, planting my palms against the roof of the car and bending to lean in.
“Can you slide over the console to get out this door?” I ask Nicole.
Before her panic attack started, she did pull the car a pretty safe distance away from the highway traffic speeding past, but I’d rather not take the chance. She nods, unbuckling her seatbelt, and lifts her hips up over the center console and into the passenger seat. I step back and take her hand to pull her the rest of the way out. I drape the towel over her shoulders and lead her to the chair. It’s not cold out, not really, but I’m hoping the towel will imitate the warm comfort of a blanket for her.
“This isn’t necessary,” she protests. “I can help you.”
I shake my head. “Rest, please. I’ll feel better.”
Nicole peers up at me, then silently nods and sits back against the chair.
I pull out my phone and search for service stations nearby. I have a tire plan with one of the national chains, but it’s too much to hope we’re close to one of their locations. But … huh. First result. It’s off the next exit, only about five miles away. Okay, then. I call them to check that they’ll honor my plan and to see if they have the tire my car needs in stock. Nicole watches me as I give a friendly mechanic named Jordan the information.
“Great!” I say. “We’re just a few miles east of you on the highway here, but I’ll change the tire, and we can drive over. Probably thirty minutes? Yeah, perfect. Thank you.”
I hang up and turn to Nicole. “Good news. They have the tire in stock, so it’ll be quick and easy for them to get us back on theroad.”
In a small voice, she says, “I can pay for the new tire. It was my fault–”
“There’s no need,” I quickly interrupt. “It won’t cost anything. I bought a nationwide tire plan with them a while back, so it’s covered.”
I change the tire as quickly as I can, but the bolts are on pretty tightly, so it takes me a few tries to get them loose. Finally, about thirty-five minutes later, the spare tire is on. I pack everything back up in the car and get Nicole settled in the passenger seat. I drive us to the next exit and then down the road to the tire shop. Pulling into a parking spot, I ask Nicole to wait in the car, at least until we know what’s up.
A bell jingles as I push through the front door. I note a small waiting area with plastic chairs, a water dispenser with those little cone-shaped paper cups and crinkled hot rod magazines. It’s empty. Behind the desk at the other end of the small lobby, a large man stands at a computer. He looks up and greets me as I walk toward him.
“Uh, hi,” I start. “I called a little bit ago. I need a tire replaced on my Impala?”
