Page 107 of Love Me Stalk Me
"No, I'm strategizing."
I watch as she starts to back in at the worst possible angle. The car edges toward the curb at a trajectory that makes no mathematical sense.
"Turn your wheel," I say.
She does nothing.
"Tighter. The other way."
Still nothing.
"Okay, stop. Go forward."
She goes backward.
"Oh my God."
Finally, with my guidance, she manages to wedge the car into the space, though it takes a lot of effort and one very aggressive honk from the guy waiting behind us.
Izzy laughs as she puts it in park. "Okay, fine, I'm terrible at this."
"You'rea menace," I say.
"Last of four kids, my parents were too exhausted to actually teach me how to drive. They just handed me the keys and prayed."
I shake my head, relieved that at least she's self-aware. The car finally stills, the engine ticking as it cools.
"If you want, we can practice sometime outside the city," I offer.
"A driving lesson with you? Sounds like boot camp. Do I have to call you sir?"
A very inappropriate image flashes through my head.
I clear my throat. "Let's go."
As I reach for the door handle, she suddenly jolts like she's remembered something. "Wait! Before you go?—"
She turns in her seat, reaching over to the glove compartment, fumbling with it until it pops open. She rummages around, pushing aside papers, receipts, and what looks like several packs of ketchup. The contents rustle as she digs through them.
"Where is it, where is it..." she mutters, brow furrowed in concentration.
"What are you looking for?" I ask, watching as she gets increasingly frantic.
"Ah! Got it!" She pulls out something blue and dangling, clutched triumphantly in her hand. I recognize it immediately—the rosary she mentioned last night. The one from her Nonna.
"I remembered what I said," she says, a little sheepishly. "About the death machine."
She holds it out to me, the blue beads catching the sunlight. They're worn in places, well-loved. The silver crucifix at the end is small but gleams like it's been polished regularly.
"Izzy..." I start, genuinely surprised she remembers that conversation, let alone followed through on it.
"I know it's silly," she says quickly, shrugging like it's no big deal. "But Nonna swears by it. She's convinced it kept me alive through my teenage driving years, and honestly, that might be a miracle in itself."
I look down at her fingers clutching it, at the way she's offering it to me so casually, like she's not handing over something obviously precious.
"I can't take this," I say, shaking my head.
She pushes it toward me more insistently. "Sure you can. Just take it."
