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“Oh.” So he knows the full extent of my idiocy. Great.
He glances at the silver urn sticking out of my tote and exhales a breath that smells like syrup. “When did she die?”
“It’s been . . .” I glance at the clock above the door and do a quick calculation in my head. “One week, four days, and almost eleven hours.”
He opens his mouth but closes it just as quickly.
“Cancer.” I answer his unspoken question as a lump grows in my throat. “She, uh, fought for as long as she could—chemo, radiation, even tried some experimental thing in New Mexico that sucked nearly her entire life savings dry because her insurance wouldn’t cover it—but it caught up to her in the end. Almost two weeks ago, she closed her eyes and never opened them again.” A tear slips down my cheek, settling into the seam of my lips, and I lick it away with my tongue.
Clark clears his throat. “I’m sorry. That’s rough. What about your—”
“My turn,” I interrupt. “What brings you to this greasy diner in the middle of the night? Waiting for someone? Hiding from the law? Or . . .” I narrow my eyes, studying him in the harsh fluorescent lights. “Scoping out your next victim?”
He leans in, his expression devoid of emotion. “I wouldn’t be a very good serial killer if I divulged all my secrets, now would I?”
I flinch, and he lets out a whoop of laughter.
“None of the above.” He drops his gaze to his book again, a secret smile on his lips.
“Oh, no . . .” I reach across the table and snatch the tattered thing out from under his nose, slamming it onto the stained Formica with a huff. “You do not get to do that. You know all about my failed road trip, from my mom’s ashes and my stolen wallet to my armadillo grill ornament, and I don’t even know your name!”
Lips twitching, he slides the book back to his side of the table, tucks his latest napkin doodles between the pages to mark his spot, then closes it again. “Dash Hammond. Dashiell, actually, but no one calls me that unless I’m in deep shit. I’m sort of on a road trip of my own, trying to decide between two very different versions of my future, and BB’s seemed like as good a place as any to kill time while my car charges. Trust me, you don’t want your battery to run out in the middle of nowhere.”
With a fleeting glance toward my deceased iPhone, I nod. “Are there even car charging stations in Hicksville?”
“Not for a quick charge. But if you’re patient and”—he peers over his shoulders, then lowers his voice—“resourceful, you can charge anywhere with an outlet.”
“So here you are, patiently people-watching for the next however many hours?”
He checks his watch. “It probably has enough juice to get me the rest of the way to Memphis. I can get a rapid charge there, but . . .” He shrugs. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“And you’re not tired?” The instant I get the words out, I realize how exhausted I am. A yawn catches me off guard, and I laugh.
He holds up his coffee cup as if staying out all night is normal. And maybe it is . . . for nerdy superheroes on cross-country road trips.
“I’d give just about anything for a warm bed and a hot shower.” I catch myself gawking at his eyes again and quickly look away.
Dash throws another glance over his shoulder, this time toward the parking lot, where the first streaks of morning light color the sky. “What are you going to do if they can’t fix your car?”
“I don’t know what I’ll do if they can. As soon as I charge my phone, I guess I can use Apple Pay in place of a credit card, but . . .”
“But you canceled all your cards, didn’t you?” Dash rests his elbows on the table as if he didn’t just light my last shred of hope on fire.
“Damn it.” I let out a breath, strangling the napkin in my hands. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to call my boyfriend to rescue me. He’d get far too much satisfaction from that. I’d sooner become vulture bait than ask him for help. My sister can’t drive with a broken leg, and my grandma can’t drive Jeanie’s car because it’s a stick shift. Maybe I should count my losses. Go home. Nobody expected me to get this far, so they won’t be shocked to see me crawling back with my tail between my legs.”
Dash slides his glasses down his nose and stares at me over the top. “Cop out much?”
“Are you kidding me? I snorted ashes in Cleveland. Had my wallet stolen. Got lost. Twice!” With each item I list, I stick up a finger. “Damn near died in a rainstorm, thanks to my grandma’s beat-up Cutlass, and crashed into a freaking ninja armadillo! I don’t normally believe in signs, but trust me, I got the message.”
“Hold up.” Dash laughs. “You snorted ashes? Like on a dare?”
“Not on purpose. It’s a long story.” Defeated, I sink into the booth.
Shaking his head, he settles back against his bench. “Long or short, quitting still sounds like a cop-out to me.”
“Listen, Mr.”—I glance at his well-worn copy of On the Road—“I-read-Jack-Kerouac-for-fun, you and your hipster friends might not think twice about wandering the country like nomads, but going on a cross-country quest to spread Mom’s ashes wasn’t my idea.”
“Did you just call me a hipster?”
