Page 39 of Story of My Life
“I understand and I will,” I said meekly.
“I’ll have you know, Gator,youreagle hitHazel, not the other way around. Look at her head wound,” Zoey said, shoving my bangs out of the way to show off my bandage.
“Maybe you should watch where you’re going,” he suggested.
“Maybe your eagle should watch where he’s going,” she countered.
Gator held up the fob again. This time I plucked it from his bear paw–sized mitt.
“Careful when you open the trunk. I heard an awful lot of clinking. Hope you didn’t have anything breakable back there,” he called after me.
“You packedone suitcase and three cases of wine?” Zoey said as we stared at the wreckage inside the trunk.
“Priorities,” I said, thinking that my heroine—we’ll call her Book Hazel until I come up with a real name—probably would have packed several color-coordinated suitcases and put the wine in something that would have contained both the wine and the glass.
I was no Book Hazel. I was an author. And as such, I didn’t require an extensive wardrobe. I did, however, rely heavily on alcohol.
I wrinkled my nose at the mess.
Shards of glass glittered under the streetlight. My suitcase—and everything else I’d crammed into the convertible’s stingy trunk—was tinged red and smelled like the floor of a winery after an all-you-can-drink tasting weekend.
The front end of the car was in worse shape. Apparently it was undriveable due to something about a radiator, a puncture, and the whole bumper still being lodged in the base of the sign.
“Good thing my stuff was in the back seat,” Zoey said cheerfully.
“About that,” Gator said, eating a ham sandwich he’d produced from thin air.
My stomach growled.
“You might wanna clean the eagle shit off it.”
Her hands froze on her sporty luggage. “Please tell me you didn’t sayeagle shit.”
“Don’t birds crap all over New York?” he asked before taking a gigantic bite of sandwich.
“Bald eagles don’t just fly around shitting all over everything in Manhattan,” she complained, sounding slightly hysterical.
“It’s usually the pigeons,” I said, dragging my suitcase out of the trunk. Wine peed from the bottom onto the street.
“Just in case anyone needs to know, there’s a daily AA meeting in the Unitarian church.” Gator waved his sandwich toward town.
“Thank you for your concern, but I don’t have a drinking problem,” I assured him. “I’m just a mildly depressed impulse shopper.” I grunted and lugged my wine-soaked luggage to the curb.
This first impression just kept getting better and better.
Zoey used a pair of glove compartment napkins as makeshift mittens and gingerly pulled her suitcase free while muttering, “Oh my God,” and gagging on repeat.
Gator grunted, finished his sandwich, and brushed the crumbs off his hands. “If you got everything you need, I’ll tow this weapon of mass destruction over to my garage and get started on a quote for repairs.”
“Do you at least have a rental I can borrow?” I asked.
He looked as if I’d just suggested he remove his pants and jog down the street naked. “A rental for the rental you destroyed? No, ma’am. I do not.”
“Thank youso muchfor your help,” I said, heavy on the sarcasm.
“You’re welcome. Try to stay off the roads now. Oh, and don’t try to murder any more wildlife,” Gator said, patting the fender of the convertible then turning for the cab of his truck.
“But your eagle tried to murder me!” I called after him.
