They’d look at the car first, because she’s the showstopper, but at the moment, she sits catty-cornered in the lane with one wheel off the shoulder. There would be a flicker of concern that someone was hurt, but then they’d see the guy scrambling out of it.
The guy who is currently storming across Market Avenue in a swing skirt and wobbling like a newborn foal in three-inch heels.
If I were the one driving past, I’d ease off the gas long enough to register the drama, then hit it harder. Sure, I’d probably slow down just long enough to snap a quick photo of the guy slamming his palm against the window of that clueless blond hunk’s Subaru, screaming something I can’t quite hear from the safety of my own lane.
But I wouldn’t stop.
I’d file it away in the mental folder labeled “Weird Shit I’ve Seen in Charlotte on a Random Saturday Afternoon” and keep driving.
Leave them to figure out their mess on their own.
Only this isn’t some stranger's mess.
It’s mine.
I’mthe guy in the skirt, and the Outback Himbo almost took the chrome offmybaby’s front bumper when he ran a stop sign. My collarbone twinges from the snap of the seatbelt when I slammed on the brakes, and burnt rubber singes my nostrils from the skid of locked tires across the asphalt.
My palm thuds against his passenger side window again, and his eyes widen as he leans forward to meet mine.
“Are you always an idiot, or is today a special occasion?” I demand.
His mouth drops open as he gestures at the intersection.
“Yeah, I know you ran the stop sign, you fucking rolling road hazard. Did it offend you personally, or are you just allergic to basic traffic laws?”
A horn blares behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to realize I’m blocking the whole damn street. I slam my palm against the Subaru’s glass with another thunk, flipping the guy off for good measure. My skirt whipsout behind me like its own middle finger as I stalk away, chin high, trying to channel every ounce of don’t-fuck-with-me energy I can muster.
Then my heel snags on a crack in the pavement.
My ankle rolls and every shred of sass collapses in an instant. I stumble forward, arms windmilling for balance, and let out a loud curse that echoes down the block, but I don’t look back at the growing line of cars this time.
If my little outburst of crazy is destined to go viral, I can at least hide my face.
Another uneven surface has me wobbling again, and I groan to myself. My decision to wear these heels on the way to the photo shoot wasn’t the smartest. Instead of changing into them once I got there like a rational person, I’m hobbling across the street and trying to maintain my dignity.
“Fucking tires are expensive, too,” I grumble as I glance at the tread, but it doesn’t look noticeably worse from the skid. I speed away, waving my middle finger through the open top one last time for flourish. Wind whips through the car as I take a deep breath and try to force calm.
It’s a good day.
Afunday.
One where I’m doing something just for myself for the first time in a long time. The light turns red, and when I stop, I glance down at myself with a rueful snort of a laugh. Allowing my baby brother to help pick my clothes for the photo shoot was a gamble. There isn’t a day that goes by that Theo doesn’t aim forextra. My flashy outfit may not look like it, but it’s the watered-down version of his original vision.
Traffic starts again, and I crank up the radio as I head west out of town.
Speaking of the damn devil.
“Next up is Empty Spaces, the newest single from Falling Absent,” the announcer says through the speakers. “This one has locked in the number one spot for the third week in a row, with no signs of dropping any time soon.”
A smile tugs at my lips as my brother’s band blares from the speakers, and I sing along as the buildings fade to greenery. Everything has been made lush by the heavy rains we’ve gotten this spring. Flowers bloom among the branches and petals fall like pink snow as the budding leaves push them aside. My nose twitches with the pollen, but I enjoy the warm sun as it bakes my skin.
The terrain becomes hillier as I follow the GPS. The photographer, Sadie, sent me the address a few days ago when she confirmed our appointment,though I didn’t expect to be quite so isolated. Another few turns and I spot the old diner.
It’s a relic of a forgotten era, lost to time out here beyond the city’s reach. It doesn’t look like this place has been fit to serve a meal in at least a decade, though the metal siding happily reflects the sunlight like it’s unbothered by its current condition. The parking lot is empty save for a single vehicle with its back hatch open.
The woman setting up equipment has a coffee in hand as she glances up at me. I toss her a friendly wave as she walks over.
“Devon?” she asks.
