Page 27 of Hauling Ashe

I haven’t been touched by anyone else in a long time. While I’ve gone on dates, nothing progressed further than an occasional awkward goodnight kiss. Living in a small community, most men my age are married or simply not someone I’d be interested in long term. I tell myself it doesn’t matter that I don’t date often. I’m busy with Mae’s Flowers, but some nights are lonely, and my battery-operated boyfriend doesn’t offer the cuddle I expect after a good orgasm.

When we finally head back to the car—Tucker got caught up in a conversation with a classic car enthusiast—I hold out my hand for the key. “You’ve insulted Louie with your lust for that beauty.” I nod at the car that Tucker learned was a 1966 Oldsmobile 442. He’d circled the machine twice, nearly drooling on the sleek exterior, before breaking away to investigate a second beast of an automobile.

He slips his hands into his jean pockets, one of which holds the fob for the Prius. “Right, and you’re the one who named your car.” He glances at the bright blue, modern vehicle. The sedan isn’t actually mine, but I did name the thing, thinking it made more sense if I pretended to talk to Louie then talk to myself as I knew I’d eventually do on a road trip alone.

Again, I wiggle my fingers.

“Springfield is the next major city. Let me drive and I’ll take you to lunch.” He almost looks nervous as he asks. At the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. After skipping dinner last night, I am hungry. We have snacks, but you can only eat so many cherry-flavored Nibblers before you get a stomachache.

“You don’t need to pay for my meals,” I remind him. He bought lunch yesterday and coffee this morning. Despite being a pain-in-the-ass passenger, he isn’t along to cover my expenses, which reminds me I didn’t get a receipt from the motel last night.

“I know,” he says as he did yesterday, and we hold eyes in a staring match.

“Okay,” I acquiesce, and his forehead relaxes. His eyes brighten.

“I promise, you’ll love it.” His excitement is catchy.

Once we settle back in the car, and Tucker starts the ignition, I glance back at the neon sign for the motel.

“Traveling by day you’re missing the bright lights of these places,” he reminds me. We’ve already passed another historic landmark motel with quaint, stone cottages named Wagon Wheel Motel. I really wanted to stay a night there but onward we must travel so my companion gets to California on time.

I sigh. “I know, but I’m not good at night driving, and I didn’t want to drive alone in the dark anyway.” The plan was to be by myself and as a single female I didn’t think night driving on unlit roads was a safe idea. Day driving only was a concession I had to make in my trip plans. Streetlamps don’t exist along this older highway, not to mention, we aren’t exactly passing through populated areas. We’ve seen vintage gas stations and an old post office, both turned into tourist stops, but nothing that would be open in the later hours.

“You wouldn’t stay in a place like this, would you?” I comment. Tucker ducks his head beside me to gain a better view of the sign. He’s close to me again, leaning over me and I get a whiff of him. Sharp. Wild. Expensive

“When we first went on tour, these were the only places the budget allowed for, and I swore I’d never stay in a place like this again once I could afford not to.” He pulls away from me and I twist to face him.

His choice of words is curious. “What tour?”

Tucker looks straight ahead, over the steering wheel and out the windshield, as his brows pinch. “Did I say tour?”

“You did. Who was on tour?” And why did he have a budget?

Tucker glances at the gear shift and puts the car in reverse.

“I didn’t mean tour,” he says, gazing over his shoulder, avoiding his slip-up as the car moves backward. “I just meant when I’d been on the road.”

“What road? When you traveled to California the first time?”

Tucker nods as he shifts to drive and checks the main road before pulling onto it. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

Only, he’s not convincing, and I wonder what I’m missing.

13

Playlist: “Let the Good Times Roll” – The Cars

[Tucker]

Shit. I hadn’t meant to hint I’d been on any kind of tour. I could have covered the slip by saying it had to do with Rochelle’s conference schedule, but we haven’t talked about my wife, and I don’t want to discuss her. Mae hasn’t even implied she knows who I was with Rochelle or my life before her.

Over a quarter of a century has passed, and while the guys thought we’d made it big then, we really hadn’t. Still, every once in a while, our most famous song hits the radio. I almost always turn it off.

I’m not ready for Mae to know more about me. I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to share everything there is to share. There’s just so much baggage, and it isn’t pretty luggage with designer names and rolling wheels, but the kind that’s duct taped with faded stickers and a broken handle.

Despite the moment of weakness where my hands roamed under her shirt, Mae and I have had a great morning. The caves were cool. The ride over the bridge was kind of special, and the stop at the old motel with classic cars had been interesting.

The last thing I want to do is explain to Mae who I once was, because I’m not him anymore. I haven’t been him for twenty-plus years.