Page 8 of Hauling Ashe

“I am not sleeping with you,” I blurt. The waitress happens to return with our coffees as I make my announcement and she snorts. Our eyes meet for a brief second and her nod says, you tell him, girl. I thank her for the hot drink while Tucker doesn’t acknowledge her presence. Instead, those metallic eyes of his watch me. His nose wrinkles as it did yesterday when he saw me the second time. As if he smelled something stinky.

“Of course not,” he huffs.

Same, pal. While I haven’t had sex in I don’t know how long, and the last thing I’ll be doing is shacking up with this guy along the road, his adamant tone is a teeny bit hurtful. His harshness stings, pinpricking at my insecurities. Adam didn’t want to sleep with me either and I was his wife. Tucker’s disgruntled words along with the wrinkle of his nose make me feel like day-old trash. I might be forty-three, but I’m not old, and while I’m no beauty queen, I’m not a Cabbage Patch kid. Maybe he’s used to pretty and peachy, and that’s on him. I’m homegrown, sunburnt, and proud of both characteristics.

“I simply meant we’ll need to rest along the way.”

I nod. I’ve actually mapped out a few places where I’d consider stopping. The truth is, I wanted the road to take me where it will, and I don’t have confirmed hotel reservations anywhere. I figured I’d stop when I wanted and keep driving when I could.

Suddenly, I’m excited again about the journey.

“Let me show you the map.” I reach for my oversized tote and pull out an extensive binder I’ve made, highlighting the route per state, marking locations where I want to stop, and places I want to see. Laying the three-ring binder flat, I flip to the first page and point to our current location.

“We’re starting here because it’s—”

His cell phone rings, and he doesn’t hesitate to answer it at the table. This is rude and something Adam would often do on official date nights when we were trying to ‘repair our marriage’. I don’t know what he could possibly talk to his assistant about at seven in the evening or what customer was so important he’d take a call at nine at night, but Adam did it. He allowed business to interrupt everything. Dinner. Vacations. Private times.

Without glancing down at my booklet, Tucker slips from the booth and begins talking while walking to the diner’s exit. Once he’s outside, I watch him pace back and forth along the sidewalk. While my ex-husband was everything opposite Hot Suit Man, this type of behavior is synonymous…married to his phone more than his wife. Then again, Jane assured me Tucker isn’t married. Widower, she said without providing additional details.

My breakfast arrives hot and fast, and I tap on the window in hopes of catching Tucker’s attention. He doesn’t look up, and I take a deep breath. The inhale causes the scent of fresh pancakes, sweet syrup, and crisp bacon to invade my olfactory senses and my mouth waters.

Who needs sexy silver fox suit porn when you can have pancakes instead?

Not this girl. No siree, not me.

5

Playlist: “Life is a Highway” – Tom Cochrane

[Tucker]

“Is this a joke?” I blurt once Mae finally exits the restaurant and approaches a vehicle. I’d gotten a call from Jude and the argument inflated my irritation with this driving situation.

“No, it’s Louie,” she scoffs, her voice full of delight, and I glance at her hand on the driver’s door handle.

“It’s a fucking Toyota Prius,” I clip.

A bright blue, four-door sedan that screams dad-mobile, and while I’m a dad, I wouldn’t be caught dead driving one of these cars.

“So?” Her hand leaves the handle and fists land on her hips, hitching one to the side as she gives me her best death glare. I’ll give it to her that she tries to stab me with those bright blue flares but she’s just too…cute…to pull off an evil look. “You need a car with a V8 engine to prove your manhood? One that guzzles gas like a sorority sister drinking vodka and Gatorade?” She pauses as if she expects an answer. Bitter mockery rings in her voice and I’m wondering if she’s projecting on me an experience with someone else.

She adds, “It’s ecofriendly and fuel efficient.”

“Nope,” I snap. I’m not riding in that thing.

“Yep.” She shrugs again, turning for the driver’s door and I swear I never want to see that shoulder hitch again. We haven’t even lasted half an hour, nor have we hit the road and I already want to run her over. She’s so…her. “You should be thankful I didn’t go with a VW campervan.”

The mention of the iconic road trip van reminds me of days long gone. When some new friends and I used something similar to cart around equipment and hit local bars until— I pause. I don’t want to think about those days. Not recalling those days is best.

I don’t respond to Mae’s comment about the campervan as she pops the trunk on the sedan. Several suitcases of her own rest inside, plus a reusable grocery bag. Ecofriendly. When she removes it, I set my carry-on beside her luggage. My suit has already been shipped to the wedding location. I had another one custom made, as my only daughter gets married only once. It’s an important moment I’ll want to commemorate.

Closing the trunk, Mae returns to the driver’s side, and I circle the back of the car, opening the right-side rear passenger door.

“What are you doing?” Mae questions. Ignoring her, I slip into the backseat with my laptop bag. Mae leans into the front seat, glaring at me in that way she does—like a blue sky on a clear day—over the headrest. I ignore the unsettling ripple running through my body as she leers at me.

“I have work to do,” I remind her.

“This isn’t Driving Miss Daisy,” she snaps.