Page 31 of A Taste of Vanilla

Her face crumples. “Oh, hon.”

That’s all it takes.

I make a sound that would probably scare the squirrel down the road if it heard, falling sideways into her arms, the center console digging into my belly and the seatbelt tugging at my shoulder.

“I’m buckled,” I sob.

“I can see that.”

“I’m trapped by safety.”

“Hold on.” She reaches over, unbuckling me in one solid motion before enveloping me in a hug. It’s awkward, but tight and absolutely perfect.

Marley smells like coconut dry shampoo, sunscreen, and the peppermint gum she always has in her back pocket. She chews it when she’s stressed, which is just about all the time. She rubs one hand up and down my back as I cry into her. I try to apologize again.

“Don’t,” she says firmly. “No apologies. Not for crying, or for calling, or for being human.” Her eyes flicker to my dashboard. “And not for having a car that lies.”

“It does lie,” I wail.

“I believe you.”

Outside, Oliver opens my gas tank with unnecessary aggression. I lift my head and look out my side mirror.

He’s standing beside my car with a red gas can in one hand, his mouth set in the thinnest line I’ve ever seen. A car stacked with tied-down IKEA boxes flies by, making his flannel snap around him.

He looks like a man personally offended by the concept of gasoline, and it makes me smile. Just a little.

“I think Oliver is mad at my car,” I say as I rub my nose with my sleeve.

“Oliver is mad at everything because if he stops being mad, he’ll have to actually have a feeling.”

He looks up at us sharply, as if he had heard her.

She smiles sweetly and waves.

He does not wave back.

“I ruined his day.” I frown.

“You improved his day. He was doing inventory.”

My head hits the seat. “That sounds like something he enjoys.”

“He does.” She shrugs. “Which is why it’s spiritually unhealthy for him. You were doing him a favor.”

Oliver finishes pouring the gas and screws the cap back on. When he’s done, he comes over to my window.

I roll it down.

He leans in, one forearm on the roof despite the blazing heat. He looks at me.

For a second, he doesn’t say a thing, and neither do I. I watch as his eyes search my face, taking it all in. The swollen eyes, the mascara tracks. His gaze drifts down after that. My ringless finger, the coffee stains on my boots. The way Marley is clinging to me like I may run away.

His jaw tightens. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

I shake my head, my hair falling into my face.

“Did he touch you?”