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That would be never.
And how long have I been driving around with the service light on my dashboard? Probably over a year.
I live in Manhattan and have a driver. I barely even use my car!
So, here I sit, crying in my car while a line of cars backs up behind me because the street is so narrow that they can’t get around me. Awesome.
Could this day get any worse?
After what feels like hours, but is really only a few minutes, a large man walks right up to my window.
“Are you okay?” he asks as he peers inside.
Embarrassed and completely panicked by his sudden appearance, I sneak a peek at him through my sunglasses and am taken aback by the sight of him. He has to be at least 6’3” with dark hair, bright blue eyes, a beard that most men would be jealous of, and a black hoodie that his massive chest is fighting to break out of.
He looks nothing like the men I meet on the red-carpet events, and for a moment I feel like my heart is going to beat right out of my chest.
“M-m-my car won’t start again,” I manage to choke out as the tears continue to run down my face.
I put my hand over my chest to try and slow my heartbeat. I take a few deep breaths while the handsome man continues to stare at me like I’m from another planet.
“I noticed. Do you know what happened?”
“I was just driving along, taking in the sights when I stopped at the red light and my car turned off,” I explain. “It just stopped and now it won’t turn back on and I’m holding up traffic and people are going to start beeping and getting angry and I don’t know what to do!”
“Okay, calm down. No one is going to beep or get angry, that’s not how folks are here. Except youaremaking me late to get my daughter to school, so if we could figure this out and get you moving that would be great.” His eyebrows pinch together as if talking to me pains him.
Glancing at the line of cars behind me, he lets out the biggest sigh I’ve ever heard. “Let me get traffic moving and then we can see what we should do. Sound okay with you?”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Be right back,” he says.
As he makes his way towards the line of cars, I can’t help but stare at him in my side mirror. My cheeks heat.
“Pull it together Penelope,” I scold myself. “You just found out your fiancé was cheating on you. Plus, you don’t even know this guy’s name. This is absolutely not happening, and you arenotattracted to this man even if your hormones are telling you differently. The end.”
I take a couple more deep breaths—my therapist taught me to focus on breathing when I’m feeling anxious—and watch as the handsome, but unfriendly, man starts to direct traffic past me. He takes complete control of the situation and all I’m doing is sitting here crying. Typical.
Oddly enough each driver waves to me as they pass. They tell me they hope I’m okay and not to worry about the traffic. I’m not even sure what to make of it.
If this was the city, I would’ve had middle fingers and curse words thrown at me. But here in this tiny town, no one seems mad except for McHottie back there. It’s throwing me off.
As I sit here, waiting for my handsome hero, I take a minute to look around at possibly the cutest town I have ever seen. On both sides of the street are quaint little shops with names like Ye Olde Tea Shoppe, The Corner Stop, and Sally’s Diner. There are more Christmas decorations than on 5thAvenue in NYC, which I didn’t think was possible.
Now that traffic is moving again, I can breathe.
I take a peek in my rearview window to gauge what state my face is in and try to catch a glimpse of where this stranger is and catch him turning off a truck. I notice a little girl sitting in the passenger seat. I can’t make out much except for her head of blonde curls that any adult would envy.
“So, McHottie is a dad. I didn’t see a ring on his finger, I wonder if he’s married,” I say to myself in the mirror a minute later. I lift my sunglasses to swipe at the moisture on my cheeks.
“McHottie, huh? That’s a new one,” a deep voice comes from my open window, cutting into my thoughts. McHottie himself stands there scowling. I swear a little smirk tries to break free, but the way his eyebrows pinch together tells me I probably won’t be seeing anything other than annoyance on his face today.
What else could possibly happen today?
“Oh um… I… um…” I try to speak but can’t form words.
“It’s okay, I’ve been called worse.”
