Page 6 of Hauling Ashe

When suit-man asks if I can make it to California by Wednesday, I’m only too pleased to respond in a firm negative. We couldn’t possibly make it that far that fast. And he can’t possibly be considering Jane’s suggestion.

I glance over at Mr. Ashhole and notice him looking back at me. He’s leveling me with a glare that could bury me. Disgust fills his expression. His strong nose wrinkles like he smells a stench. However, I’m a fan of dirt. Flowers are my business. And I’ve perfected the I-dislike-you-too stare, compliments of my ex-husband. I break away from looking at this man, wondering just what my sister is thinking.

Eventually, the ultimate idea arrives, and I tell him to drive himself, again gnashing my teeth at the desire to tell him a few other choice things he can do.

His sharp “no” doesn’t surprise me, but what does is when he leaves the office in a manner similar to how he left me on the sidewalk this morning. Without a word, he spins on his heels and retreats from Jane’s office.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I snap at my sister as soon as we are alone again.

Jane lowers herself to her desk chair as if the weight of this conversation presses on her. “I don’t want you alone.”

“I want to be alone. That’s the point. Do something for myself. Be free to be me.” I pat my chest, exasperated that my sister doesn’t understand and upset that she’d suggest I take on her boss as a rider. “I am not hauling his fine ass across the country.”

Jane tilts her head, and a grin pokes at the corner of her mouth. “Fine ass?”

“Just ass. I am not driving that ass anywhere.” On those words, I suddenly sense said ass’s return. He hovers just inside Jane’s door and the three of us remain in tense silence.

I cross my arms and fall back into the chair across from Jane’s desk. The position reminds me I’m uncomfortably damp from the coffee that ruined my shirt and seeped into my bra underneath. The cardigan is also absorbing some of the mess and the entire moment feels like a bad omen.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow morning at six.” The directive hangs in the air before he spins once again on his expensive leather loafers and exits Jane’s office.

“He cannot be serious,” I turn on my sister. Her shoulders fall in relief.

“Please, just do this for me,” Jane folds her hands and lifts them under her chin, pleading with me like she did when we were kids and she wanted something done, by me or our younger sister Lindee.

“Why, Jane? Why?” Why him? Why this? How is this…this… insufferable man suddenly riding in my car with me all the way to California?

She softly shrugs. “He needs you.”

My brows pinch. The shift in her voice makes my skin pebble. She isn’t making any sense.

“And you might need him.” Because she doesn’t want me on the road alone.

Shaking my head, I disagree with her.

There is no way I will ever need Tucker Ashford.

4

ILLINOIS – DAY 1

Playlist: “Sweet Home Chicago” written by Robert Johnson (1936)

[Mae]

If my sister hadn’t told me the exorbitant price Tucker Ashford was willing to pay a car service to haul his ass across the country—which would be paid to me instead—I wouldn’t be parked before Lou Mitchell’s at six on Friday morning. The infamous diner is noted as a traditional starting point ritual. Before hitting the Mother Road, travelers stopped here to fuel up on their world-famous coffee. Upon visiting, every woman is given a box of Milk Duds. According to the internet, Greeks are known for their hospitality and when entering their home, women and children are offered something sweet as a warm welcome. I’m nearly giddy with the possibility.

That body-ripple excitement comes to a crash when I see Tucker Ashford in another business suit, tugging a rolling suitcase behind him and wearing an over-the-shoulder computer bag. A man purse. Why am I not surprised? What I am surprised about is that he showed. I was hoping he wouldn’t. Which isn’t exactly true, but it’s what I’m telling myself. When my sister bamboozled me into giving this insufferable man a two-thousand miles ride across the country, cutting into my spirit trip, I drew the line at picking him up at his condominium like a damn chauffeur.

“If he’s so desperate for a ride, he can meet me at Lou’s.”

Jane wasn’t happy with my ultimatum, but neither was I. My trip was scheduled for two full weeks of cross-country bliss including cheesy pitstops and cheeky locations. I wanted to see everything. Realistically, two weeks didn’t allow me to visit every single highlight along the way. I’d spend more time pausing than driving and I wanted the drive time. One thing I knew about myself was that driving long distances often led to reflection. Of course, on the last long-distance trip I’d taken, it became abundantly clear it was time to leave my husband. There was also the fact he was in the shower with his lover in our home when I returned, but I’m not allowing thoughts of Adam on this trip. Adam is ceasing to exist for me as anything other than the sperm donor for my sons.

“Good morning,” I call out, sounding more cheerful than I feel at seeing Mr. Hot Suit Pants. We’ll be in the car for long stretches of time, and I can’t imagine a business suit is the most comfortable attire to ride in, but then again, what do I know about fashion? My professional wear is jeans and T-shirts. If I could wear pajamas to work, I would, but my industry involves dirt, sweat, and weather conditions, therefore I dress accordingly.

Mr. Assford grunts in response to my greeting. Gone is the momentarily flirtatious silver fox from the sidewalk yesterday morning. Fine. I open the door to the restaurant for him.

“What is this?” he asks, noting my hand on the door handle.