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Why does this car have so many buttons?
The bee makes a, um, beeline, for me. It’s aiming for the space right between my eyes. They cross, blurring my vision. I lean right at the same time that it veers course. I know better than to swat it and enrage it when I’m already in its crosshairs.
In my panic, I act rashly, desperately, and lay on the car’s horn.
Honk!
If anyone was still asleep in Coco Key at 11:32 a.m., they’re awake now. This strange incident, along with my unannounced visit, is sure to hit the Coconut Wireless before long.
However, the blaring horn does nothing to deter the bee, wasp, hornet, or whatever it is. All I know is that it is angry.
It aims at me, prepared to sting. I dodge right, left, and then slouch down in my seat, unwilling to give up ground because that means I’ll be out in the open and vulnerable to Ryan seeing me.
Then the unthinkable happens. My knee hits the gearshift. Well, the button “shift,” I guess is what it is. Or dial. I like cars that are made the old way. The right way. There are two pedals, a steering wheel, a gear shift, and minimal bells, whistles, buttons and dials. Don’t even get me started with cars that have computer screens.
The rental shifts into “drive” and still trying to avoid the bee, my foot pushes the accelerator. The vehicle lurches forward and I make contact as I scramble to pull the plug on the thing.
No, not with the bee. Its death buzz tells me it’s still somewhere trapped inside this button-covered bubble with me.
I make contact with a pair of blue eyes. Familiar blue—the shade of the surrounding sea on a sunny day. They widen with shock? Horror? Disbelief?
Mine must mirror Ryan’s because I realize what’s happening seconds before it’s too late. Stomping on the car’s brake, I stop before he flies through the windshield, but I think I skimmed his shins withthe bumper.
They probably insured his professional athlete shins for billions.
Please don’t say I injured him.
As the stinging insect continues to drone, and with one last glance at paradise before I probably spend the rest of my life in prison, I slide down in the driver’s seat. Squeezing my eyes shut, I hope that if I hide for long enough, this will all go away.
Would I rather be anywhere but here right now?
Actually, yes. I’d rather be beamed up by aliens or get chased by a pack of werewolves than physically run into my nemesis with my rental car. Thankfully, I was going under five miles an hour, but still. The celebrity football player with an ego the size of the Atlantic will never let me live down this incident.
Ryan being Ryan and me being me makes this a travesty of epic proportions.
A light knock sounds on the window and the bee knocks into it.
“I’d rather not be trapped in here with me either right now,” I whisper.
Yes, to the bee.
“Harley, what? I can’t hear you.” Ryan makes a roll-the-window-down motion.
As if this modern marvel of a vehicle outsmarting me had manual windows. Ha! That’s the stuff of Aunt Martina’s old Pontiac. And the stuff I prefer, thank you very much. At least right now.
I shake my head slowly.
“You won’t open the window?”
I point to the bee. “I’m doing a public act of service, sparing you from this bee.”
“You have to pee?”
“Ryan!”
“Hi.” He smiles that same, infuriatingly flirty smile that has likely wooed women the world over. But not this one.
Not much.
