Pothole Season
Keelie
“I have roadside service. They’re on their way. Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
I look up from my phone where I’m standing in the ditch with my heels sinking into the dirt. They’re no Manolo’s, but I did drop a few hundred bucks on them back when I was a lobbyist. That was a lifetime ago, but they’re timeless and fancier than what I wear to work these days. When my bossy older sister, Stephie, came over this afternoon, she dug through my closet and unearthed them. I certainly didn’t plan on wading through a ditch on my first date in forever. I’m not sure it can get any worse.
Plus, I hit my head on the passenger window when sweater-vest man swerved from his tire blowing out. I feel a bump forming on my temple. I should’ve known this whole thing was a bad idea.
If I weren’t in heels, a white blouse, and my favorite jeans, I’d change the flat myself. I don’t know how to change a tire, but YouTube has become my right-hand man. I’ve learned how to do all kinds of things from that site. When one lives by herself in a ninety-two-year-old farmhouse with two kids, twelve goats, three barn cats, two dogs, and a donkey—there’s a lot of shit to fix. I’m becoming a rock star at you-tubing life’s problems away. It’s how I roll these days.
And what kind of man doesn’t know how to change a tire?
Stan, of course. He’s the kind of man who picks up his date at five o’clock instead of making reservations.
Like the idiot Stan’s turning out to be, he’s standing in front of his car that’s barely pulled to the side of the two-lane road we’re stranded on. There are no shoulders out here in the country—where the road ends, the ditch begins. I’m not standing in front of his car with others whizzing past us faster than necessary. I have two kids at home who need me. Getting run over on the way home from the worst date ever will not be the way I go. I’ll stand in the ditch all night if I have to.
I look up from my phone and don’t even try to smile. I quit fake-smiling around a quarter ‘til seven when Stan asked if I wanted to go back to his place for a drink and to watch Netflix.
I mean, really. It’s been dog-years since I’ve graced the dating scene, but I know what watching Netflix means—not to mention it’s ridiculously cliché.
That’s when I told him the truth. I don’t watch TV—Netflix or otherwise—and I especially wouldn’t be watching it with him.
Tired of faking it, I asked him to take me home. We were on our way when he hit a hole in the road, blew out a tire, and swerved to hell and back. That was when I bumped my head on the door window.
“I’m good.”
I toss my phone back into my purse and search around for some ibuprofen. For the first time in eons, I’m grateful I didn’t have time to clean out my purse because I have a half-bottle of Gatorade Knox asked me to hold the other day. It might be warm and days old, but I don’t give a shit. I take a swig and down the pills because I know my head will start throbbing any minute. I yank my purse strap back up my shoulder and cross my arms to keep warm. “You shouldn’t stand up there. Someone could hit your car and plow right over you.”
He shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his too-small khakis that he paired with a too-small sweater vest, worn over an odd-colored brown dress shirt. His loafers look like they cost as much as my heels, so I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t want to attempt changing a tire, though, I do wonder if he even knows how to. I’m sure he’s lost all interest in wooing me—even if his idea of wooing is weird and unnatural—because he raises an eyebrow when he responds, “I’m not standing in the mud.”
I sigh and hope for his sake, and mine, that he doesn’t get plowed over. That would suck for him and I don’t want to see it. As boring and uppity as he is, I’d like to see us both go home tonight, albeit in opposite directions.
“How long did they say it would take?” I ask.
“It could be an hour-and-a-half.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts scrolling across the screen.
Fucking great. I must be in first-date detention, being punished for not trying harder. But in my defense, I didn’t want to go in the first place.
No problem. I’ll just change the fucking tire myself.
I’m two minutes into my how-to-change-a-tire video when a huge truck flies by.
I look back to my phone, but hit pause when I see brake lights, then reverse lights. Backing toward us, it settles to a stop in front of Stan’s Buick. I can’t see the driver from where I’m standing, but I hear a door slam right before a deep voice rings through the dusk. “You need some help?”
I maneuver my way through the ditch to get closer when I hear Stan, the dumbass, reject his offer. “I’ve got someone coming. Thanks, though.”
“Is it just a flat or did you do other damage?” the voice asks.
“I’m pretty sure it’s just a flat, but we’re good. I have insurance for things like this.” Damn him. He must want me to stand in this ditch all night.
“If you’re sure—” the voice starts, but I interrupt.
“No! Wait.” I try to skip in my heels through the dormant grass and weeds to where the voice can see me. “Yes-yes. We need help. I was just looking up how to change a tire on the internet. I bet we can figure it out together. Then I won’t have to stand here all night. It’s getting cold.”
When I get closer, I see the voice belongs to a large man—a man who’s tall and incredibly handsome.
No, not just handsome. He’s off-the-charts amazingly beautiful, in a rugged sort of way.
I haven’t seen a sight so fascinating in a long while. Not in real life, anyway. Sure, Stephie tags me in pics of hot guys who must be ten years my junior all the time on Instagram and Facebook. She even has me following Hot Guys and Hummus, which is just hot guys eating hummus. But none of them have anything on the man standing before me now.
This man is here in the flesh and needs no hummus to be hot. He shifts his weight and folds his arms across his wide chest, taking a wide stance in his worn jeans and work boots. His brown hair looks like it could use a trim, but unlike his hair, his beard is clipped short and neatly trimmed. I can’t tell what color his eyes are since he’s squinting at me, and I think he’s squinting because he’s smirking.
Oh, shit. He’s smirking at me.
“I don’t need a lady’s help to change a flat.”
“Like I said, thanks, but there’s no need,” Stan reiterates.
“Please.” I ignore Stan. “I don’t think he knows how to change a tire.”
Stan’s voice becomes sharp. “I know how to change a tire. I pay for roadside assistance so I don’t have to.”
I tip my head and raise my brows at Stan. I’m so over him and our date from hell. Throwing my hand toward the beautifully-rugged man smirking at me, I point out the flaw in Stan’s plan. “Meanwhile, we’re stuck here for the next hour-and-a-half when this gentleman has clearly offered his assistance.”
Our guest’s expression changes from a smirk to confused. “You two married?”
“No!” Stan and I both answer at the same time, but I keep talking. “Really, I’ll help. We’re almost out of light. If we hurry, we won’t be changing a tire in the dark.”
My knight in old jeans and work boots starts to move around Stan’s car and orders, “Pop the trunk.”
“Yes,” I agree, with a smile on my face. “Pop the trunk.”
Stan shakes his head and mumbles a string of curse words as I tippy-toe back through the ditch trying to save my shoes. When I meet my new hero at the rear of the car, I offer my hand. “I’m Keelie. Thank you so much. You’re saving me an hour and a half of having to stand out here. The sooner this day ends the better.”
He opens the trunk and I look up at him, but I’m used to looking up to most everyone. He’s got to be over six feet and his bulky work boots make him even taller. In bare feet, I squeak in at five-four.
He speaks as he rummages around Stan’s trunk. “The night is young. You never know—you could still salvage the day. Saturday’s the best day of the week.”
I try not to sound sarcastic because he is helping me get home faster, which is the only thing that could possibly salvage my day at this point. “I prefer Mondays.”
This gets his attention and he looks to me with a frown. “Mondays? Who likes Mondays?”
Even through his frown, I now see his eyes are dark, but have a hint of green lining his pupils. He’s got a few tiny lines framing his eyes that only add to his rugged package—a complete contradiction from the man who just took me on the first date I’ve been on in fourteen years.
I give my head a little shake. “I don’t know. I guess I like the comfort of a schedule and predictability.”
His frown turns incredulous. “Sounds like someone needs to show you how to appreciate a Saturday.” He lifts the spare tire out of the trunk like it’s a feather pillow and grabs a bunch of other gadgets I saw on my how-to-change-a-tire video. When he slams the trunk, he juts his chin toward Stan. “Looks like he needs to up his Saturday game.”
I look to where Stan is standing with his phone to his ear. He’s being a sour-flower, ignoring us. I don’t want to come across as a bitch, so I go for vague and fib, “No, no. Stan’s fine, it’s me.”
He widens his hazel eyes before I lose sight of them when he looks at the flat. “If you say so.”
I watch him bend to loosen the bolts with a big tool—thinking I could’ve easily handled this part—and for some reason try to convince him I’m not an oddball for liking Mondays. “The beginning of the week is a new start. I feel productive and sort of have a new lease on life. By the time Wednesday or Thursday roll around, I realize how much of what I needed to get done didn’t get done, and my new lease on life fades away. This happens weekly. Don’t even get me started on Fridays. By Friday, I’m exhausted.”
At this point, my new friend is well past my YouTube knowledge of how to change a tire and I have no idea what he’s doing. The front of Stan’s car is jacked up and he’s pulling off the flat with little effort. Tossing it to the pavement, he reaches for the spare. “I’ve never heard anyone so obsessed with days of the week. No wonder you’re exhausted.”
I know for a fact he’s right, but I’m not about to admit it. “Maybe. Do you not keep a schedule?”
He keeps his eyes on his task as he speaks. “Work when I need to work, which is usually every day, and relax when I can. I just recently started sticking to a schedule. Can’t lie, even though it’s necessary, it can be shit.”
Finally, something I can agree with wholeheartedly. “Yes. It can be shit.”
At my last word, he looks up from where he’s crouched at the side of Stan’s car. He smiles, making his rugged face come alive and his eyes do that thing that’s very becoming on him.
“What?” I ask, wondering what he’s smiling at.
His smile shrinks back into a smirk. “It’s fun hearing the word shit come out of a pretty little thing like you.”
I frown. That’s completely sexist, not to mention, he doesn’t know the half of it. There are days I can’t think straight unless every other word is fuck.
But I’m not about to let him in on that.
“Anyway,” I try for a new subject, “thank you for stopping. You saved my white blouse since I was about to tackle this on my own. I’d like to get home to my kids and kiss them goodnight.”
“Well then.” He finishes tightening the bolts and stands, brushing his hands together. “Glad I saw you standing in the ditch and decided to stop. It’s pothole season. This happens a lot.”
“Pothole season?”
His face becomes serious. “Yeah, potholes’re everywhere from the snow. Water settles and expands when it freezes, making the asphalt crack. They don’t get them fixed very fast out here in the country. There was one a ways back, I’m sure it’s what blew your friend’s tire. You need to watch out for them.”
“Oh.” I sort of don’t know what to say. Not about the potholes, but about this strange man telling me to be careful. He looks like he really means it, too, not just some idle warning he’d offer in passing. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Hey.” His serious face morphs into a frown. “You hit your head? You’ve got a knot on your temple.”
I lift my hand and try not to wince when I touch it. “It’ll be fine. I didn’t hit it too hard.”
He gestures toward Stan. “Does he know you hurt yourself?”
I lower my voice since Stan is walking our way. “Yes, but I’m okay.”
I’ve had enough drama for the night—I just want to get home to Knox and Saylor. At least I can let Stephie off the hook so she can get home early. That is, right after I chastise her for talking me into this debacle in the first place and make her promise to never do it again.
“I cancelled the roadside service.” Stan appears in front of us. Looking at the fresh tire the stranger just changed for him, he notes, “That was fast.”
“Yes,” I agree and look up to the man who saved the day and warned me about pothole season. “It was. Thank you, again.”
“Not a problem.” He nods to Stan before looking back to me and raises a brow that screams sarcasm. “Enjoy the rest of your Saturday, ma’am.”
Oh, he did not just ma’am me. The only people allowed to call me ma’am are in high school.
“It’s Keelie,” I remind him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats with a smirk.
I open my mouth to refute him again, but for the first time since five o’clock this afternoon, I’m grateful when Stan opens his, even though he’s rude when doing so. “Can we go now?”
I look at my phone and see it’s almost eight. If we leave now I can spend a little time with the kids and get back to my life. It’ll be a long walk through hell before I let Stephie set me up again.
Looking back to my tire-changing hero, I move to the passenger door. “Thank you for stopping.”
“She’s got a bump on her head,” my knight announces.
I stop and see my hero glaring at Stan.
“She said she was fine,” Stan responds.
“A knot on the head isn’t fine.”
“I took something and don’t even have a headache. It’ll go away in no time. I’d really like to get home.” I try to convince everyone I’m okay. I’ll be more than okay when I get back to my kids.
“Make sure someone keeps an eye on you,” he demands and looks back to Stan with a frown before leaving.
I get into Stan’s car and watch the man who saved my day stride to his truck, his long legs getting him there quickly and efficiently. I try not to stare even though it’s hard since his old jeans fit him perfectly—snug through the ass and thighs, loose over his work boots. Definitely not khakis with an ill-fitting, ugly sweater vest.
I’ve never been attracted to work boots before. Work boots have never been a blip on my radar.
Well, I guess after fourteen years, one’s tastes can change. Who knew?
Oh well. As the work boots in the truck pull away, I shrug that thought off. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not trying this dating thing again for a long, long time.
And silently—besides the soft rock music from the 90’s that’s been annoying me since five o’clock—Stan directs his car toward my old farmhouse where my kids are waiting for me. I’m ready to write off my first attempt at getting back into the game after more than a decade. I’ve decided the game sucks and I will be pleased as punch to sit on the sidelines. Others can go watch Netflix and fuck themselves for all I care.
*****
“You went on a date, Mommy?”
I sigh and snuggle into Saylor’s hair where I’m lying with her on the floor of Knox’s room. She’s got her own room, but for the last year and a half, she sleeps on a pallet she made in his. I’m lucky Knox is sweet and allows this, although deep down, I think he likes having her close.
“I went to dinner,” I answer.
Knox shifts in his bed and looks down at us. “Aunt Stephie said you went on a date.”
“Aunt Stephie is wrong,” I correct him. “I went to dinner with a friend of hers and we had a flat tire. The food wasn’t good and I had to stand in a ditch. Which reminds me, if you’re ever stranded on the side of the road, always stand off to the side, never close to the car. It’s safer that way.”
“Okay, mom,” Knox agrees immediately as he always does, but he’s a sponge. He takes in everything and remembers it all.
I’ve stopped pussy-footing around my kids like I once did. If I can prepare them for any eventuality, I will. When life hit us like a Mac truck, I learned my lesson. Pretending everything is licorice and butterflies will do them no good, especially when they need to pull their shit together like their life depends on it.
Of course, Saylor didn’t hear a thing I said and asks, “What did you eat?”
I sigh, wanting to put the day out of my head. “Salmon. It was dry.”
“Yucky.” She wiggles around in my arms and smiles. “You shudda gone to Brooklyn Brothers and had pizza.”
“I agree.” I smile and kiss her nose. “It’s late and you guys need to get to sleep.”
When I got home from the date from hell, I chewed Stephie’s ass. She was surprised because her husband, my brother-in-law, thought Stan was an okay guy. She felt bad about the bump on my head, but I told her what I told everyone else tonight—I’m fine.
Then we opened a bottle of wine and made fun of Stan’s outfit while the kids finished their movie. If nothing else, I can always count on Stephie to be snarky with me. It’s who we are.
I kiss Saylor one more time and pull myself off the floor to do the same to Knox. “Sleep tight, my loves.”
I get “You too, mommy” and “Goodnights” from both.
After tucking them in, I call for the behemoths. “Banner and Bella. Time for bed!”
I hear them come running, the lovable mutts we got for the kids when we moved in. As much as they shed and make a mess, I can’t help but love them. Their nails skid on the aged wood floors before they make the turn into Knox’s room.
“Settle down.” I give them a good rub down before they find their spots on the floor next to Saylor.
After more loves and goodnights, I finally flip off the light and go straight to my room.
This Saturday can’t end soon enough.