But it’s too late.
Chapter 6
We Know the Water Smells Like Eggs
Saturday, Now
“Aw, honey. I’msorry,” Ethan tells me as the last dregs of Gatorade leave my body. “Let it all out.”
Standing on the side of the road, he’s holding my hair back and rubbing small circles between my shoulders in a distinctly collegiate manner. But maybe that’s a critical component of your entire life falling apart. Regression.
“Your poor van,” I say, my face pointed to the grass. I’m not ready to go vertical quite yet.
“Don’t worry about that,” he tells me, his hand still on my back. “Worry about what’s in your hair.”
I grimace. “On my lap too.”
He surveys the surrounding area. “There’s a truck stop just north of us. If we’re lucky, they’ll have a shower where you can get cleaned up.”
My shoulders sink. “A truck stop shower?”
“I usually shower at Anytime Fitness, but we’re a little too far from a city for that. A truck stop is going to be your best option. Would you rather use my camping shower? It’s ice cold, has no water pressure, and is fully open to the elements. Take your pick.”
I momentarily weigh the prospect of a public nudity citation against exposure to staphylococcal bacteria and arrive at a verdict that surprises even me. Releasing a tiny whimper of resignation, I murmur, “Truck stop, please.”
He rubs that spot between my shoulders again. It’s nice. Comforting. Like when my mom used to make me those Lipton Noodle Soup packets when I was sick.
“That’s my Chuck. So quietly heroic.”
I don’t care for the amusement in his voice, but as he just held my hair back, I’ll let him have this one.
“I’m sorry about your upholstery.” I avert my eyes from the soiled patch of grass and direct all my focus to Ethan’s left leg. His muscular calf. His lightly suntanned skin. It’s by far the strangest grounding exercise I’ve ever subjected myself to, but it works. It steadies me enough to lift my head.
“It’s a wipe-clean vegan leather. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re just happy because you were right about my car sickness,” I say, finally looking in his eyes. There’s a touch of schadenfreude tugging at his lips.
“Eh, but I wouldn’t’ve minded being wrong.” He disappears behind the van with my laptop and, about a minute later, reappears with a garbage bag. “I wiped off what I could. We’ll see if a cup of rice is any match for your insides.”
Yesterday, if you would’ve asked me what I’d save in a house fire, I would’ve pointed to the laptop inside this green compostable trash bag without hesitating. You think you know yourself, but then that alarm goes off and you’re surprised by your own ineptitude.
My whole body recoils when I take the bag from him. “You think rice will help?”
“It brought your pink Razr back from the brink,” he quips.
“Razrs are indestructible. They’re a technological marvel. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“All right.” His palm finds my shoulder blades again. “Let’s focus on you. We’ll worry about the replaceable things later.”
—
I take the shower key from the pretty young woman at the front counter, who seems only moderately irritated that I interrupted her reading ofFourth Wingwith something as mundane as my cleanliness emergency.
“The shower’s seven dollars. Keep your shoes on,” she instructs, snapping her gum.
There’s a giant red-haired man behind her restocking a row of tobacco pouches. “Don’t come back here to complain that the water smells like eggs,” he tells my reflection in the mirrored security camera. “Weknowthe water smells like eggs.”
And with that inauspicious disclaimer, their attention returns to sexy dragon riders and Cool Mint ZYN, respectively.
