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sense of fear, despite the large quantity
of fine Mexican methamphetamine
beneath the front seat. It’s a forty-
minute drive home, at the speed limit,
and I have to admit getting away
from Red Rock, Brad, and the girls feels
like freedom. Guess I’m finding space I like.
On a lark, I hit Trey’s number on my speed
dial. I about drop the phone when he actually
answers, and on the second ring. Hey, you.
Must be ESP. I was just thinking about you.
My first thought is, He’s thinking about
me! [My first thought is, Yeah, right.]
We talk for ten minutes and every doubt
about what he feels for me dissolves.
There are a few uncomfortable moments,
like when he asks, So, what’s up with Brad?
The Bree in me has a ready smart-ass answer,
which I quickly squelch in favor of telling him
Brad fixed my car. [Oh, he fixed more than
that, didn’t he?] But Trey’s next query, about
“availability,” elicits an “Oh, duh” moment.
When I tell him, “No problem,” he says,
Cool. I’m thinking about a quick trip over
the mountain. You’ll be around, won’t you?
Well, where else would I be, especially with
him coming? My heart hammers, blood
pumping wildly until I pull into Mom’s driveway
and realize he’s coming more for glass than for me.
That’s What’s on My Mind
