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I look away just in case he hasn’t already added ‘staring perv’ to his list of character traits describing yours truly. When did polo shirts become so sexy?
He hands me the receipt when he climbs back in. I look at it and see that, indeed, he got the five gallons for free.
A jaunty “Thank you for stopping!” is printed in a fake cursive font at the bottom of the little slip.
“I’ve got fifteen more gallons coming, so try not to feel too bad.” He watches me carefully as if he’s expecting me to question him. “We all good?”
“You took care of everything. Thank you.” I hope that didn’t come out sounding sarcastic because I mean it. Not only has this man helped me out by giving me a ride, loaning me a fuel tank, and filling it with gas, but he’s also eased a large part of the anxiety that’s become as close to me as a shadow over the past few years.
He nods and starts the truck.
“Where’s your car?”
“About two miles that way.” I point down the road past the gas station. “I should warn you it’s still on the shoulder of Highway 42. I almost made the turnoff, but. . .” My words trail off as some of the anxiety creeps back in.
“Shouldn’t be too bad this time of day. Most of the locals are already at work, and a majority of the tourists haven’t slept off their hangovers yet.”
I snort, and he grins at me.
There’s an odd moment of easy kinship here. Odd for me, at least. I don’t feel comfortable with most people. Between my social anxiety and a generally sheltered life, I haven’t gotten out much. I bet Matt makes friends in the blink of an eye. His whole persona is open, friendly, and affable, not the kind that would scare people off.
We’re easing over to the side of the highway behind my dead car when I see an orange tag stuck to my window.
Before Matt’s fully stopped, I leap down and hurry over.
Damn efficient Sheriff’s Department. I’ve only been gone an hour, tops, and they already found the car, stopped, wrote a ticket, and left.
I hadn’t even seen any cruisers go by while I was walking, so it must have been during the last half hour while we were requisitioning the can.
I rip the orange sticker off the driver’s side mirror. Relief washes through me when I realize it’s only a warning with a threat to tow if the car isn’t moved within the next three days.
Matt walks up next to my car, gas can and funnel in hand, and I’m glad he at least has the presence of mind to actually do the job he volunteered to help me with.
He pops open the covered door to the gas valve and unscrews the cap. The funnel is long enough that it stays in the line without someone holding it in while the gas is poured, which I’m grateful for because I don’t want to do something dumb, like drop half a can of gas on myself because I can’t stop shaking.
Matt gets the can ready, rotating the spout and making sure everything is tightened down.
He hoists the tank up, and my scattered brain can’t decide which to focus on, the orange ticket in my hand or the way Matt’s muscles bulge and flex while he holds the gas can. Steeling myself to focus on the ticket, I reread it just to double-check that it really is only a warning and not some sort of fine in disguise. Who’d have thought your lucky pass for the day would be not getting a ticket.
“Not to ask the obvious question, but when’s the last time you filled up?”
“Day before yesterday. It was over three-quarters full. I swear it was.” My face pinches in frustration. “The emissions light came on a couple of days ago, but I didn’t think it would affect the gas mileage that badly.”
“Depends on what the light came on for. Did you get the codes read?”
“No, I didn't think it was that big of a deal. Besides, most of the places who’ll read them for free only do the check engine light.”
Matt does a double-take and then focuses back on his pouring. “The emissions warning is the check engine light on these models.”
I turn away from him, trying to hide some of my embarrassment. I must look like a complete idiot.
“Was it steady or blinking?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose to hold in my sniffles before turning back toward him. “Huh?” I sound garbled. Great, now I’m going to cry.
“The light.”
“Steady, I think.”
