out. That must have been where the popping sound came from, I realized.
Ok ay, I could handle this. After our father died, Jake taught me how to change a tire. Of course, I’d never actually done it. But I had paid attention. First step: I needed to find the spare.
I searched for a few minutes before coming to the grim conclusion there was no spare. About the time I realized this, the sky opened up like a broken dam. Fat, heavy rain drops splatter ed all around me. I ran to the truck and tugged at the door handle. It was locked.
I locked myself out of the truck.
I let out an angry yell. The cow turned its head and stared at me.
I heard the sound of tires on the wet road, and looked up in time to see another truck slowing down to avoid crashing into the cow. The truck pulled around the cow and stopped alongside where I stood on the side of the road. The driver rolled the window down, and when I saw his face, I wanted to cry.
Thatcher.
It was not my day.
“ You all right?”
I crossed my arms. “I’m fine!”
“ Guess your GPS didn’t tell you to go around the cow, did it, Heels?”
I turned away from him and pulled my phone out of my pocket.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“ I’m calling for roadside assistance.”
“ Good luck. Cell phones don’t work on this stretch of road.”
I turned around and glared at him. “What?”
“ I said cell phones don’t work on this stretch of road.”
“ I heard you. That’s insane.”
“ Go ahead and try. Maybe you have some fancy magical cell phone.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away again, attempting to place a call. He was right. Nothing.
“Get in the truck, Heels.”
I didn’t budge.
“Come on, now. Get in.”
I turned around to see him hop out of the truck, walk around to the passenger side, and open the door.
There was no way I was getting in his truck.
“ You gonna make me stay out in the rain all night?” he asked.
I put my hands on my hips.
“You know,” he said, “it ain’t right for a cow to stand in the road like that. You ever heard of Mad Cow Disease?”
I looked at the cow, then back at Thatcher, then back at the cow.
Was he kidding? I couldn’t tell. What choice did I have anyway? I was soaking wet, freezing, and miles from the vineyard.
I balled my hands into fists and took several strides toward the truck. “ Fine. But I’m only coming with you because you look like an idiot standing out here in the pouring rain.” I got in the truck, and he shut the door behind me.
“ Well, so do you, Heels.”
***
Thatcher pulled up to a run-down little restaurant and was trying to coax me inside.
“ I don’t want pancakes,” I said. “I don’t even like pancakes. I want to go home.”
“ See, there’s your problem. You want pancakes so bad you don’t even know how bad you want ’em.”
“ I look awful. I’m soaking wet.”
“ You’ll blend in. And nothing a hot cup of coffee can’t fix.”
“ No, thank you.”
He turned the engine off. “ Suit yourself. You wait in the truck while I go have me some of the best pancakes on the planet.”
He got out of the car and walked across the parking lot. I sighed heavily, opened the truck door, and followed him.
Inside, the place appeared as if it had been frozen in time around 1978. Ruffled flowered curtains adorned the windows. The booths were made of a mustard yellow vinyl. I looked around and took it all in. Was this place for real?
We were seated in a corner booth by the window. A smiling older woman approached us and did a double take.
“Why, Thatcher Bartholomew James. As I live and breathe!”
Thatcher looked up from the menu. “Hi, Ms. Betty.”
“ Hi, sweetie. Now you take off your hat in my restaurant like a proper gentleman. You know better.”
“ Yes, ma’am, Ms. Betty.” Thatcher removed his hat and placed it on the booth next to him.
The woman turned to me. “And who’s your girlfriend?” she asked.
“ I’m not his
Ok ay, I could handle this. After our father died, Jake taught me how to change a tire. Of course, I’d never actually done it. But I had paid attention. First step: I needed to find the spare.
I searched for a few minutes before coming to the grim conclusion there was no spare. About the time I realized this, the sky opened up like a broken dam. Fat, heavy rain drops splatter ed all around me. I ran to the truck and tugged at the door handle. It was locked.
I locked myself out of the truck.
I let out an angry yell. The cow turned its head and stared at me.
I heard the sound of tires on the wet road, and looked up in time to see another truck slowing down to avoid crashing into the cow. The truck pulled around the cow and stopped alongside where I stood on the side of the road. The driver rolled the window down, and when I saw his face, I wanted to cry.
Thatcher.
It was not my day.
“ You all right?”
I crossed my arms. “I’m fine!”
“ Guess your GPS didn’t tell you to go around the cow, did it, Heels?”
I turned away from him and pulled my phone out of my pocket.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“ I’m calling for roadside assistance.”
“ Good luck. Cell phones don’t work on this stretch of road.”
I turned around and glared at him. “What?”
“ I said cell phones don’t work on this stretch of road.”
“ I heard you. That’s insane.”
“ Go ahead and try. Maybe you have some fancy magical cell phone.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away again, attempting to place a call. He was right. Nothing.
“Get in the truck, Heels.”
I didn’t budge.
“Come on, now. Get in.”
I turned around to see him hop out of the truck, walk around to the passenger side, and open the door.
There was no way I was getting in his truck.
“ You gonna make me stay out in the rain all night?” he asked.
I put my hands on my hips.
“You know,” he said, “it ain’t right for a cow to stand in the road like that. You ever heard of Mad Cow Disease?”
I looked at the cow, then back at Thatcher, then back at the cow.
Was he kidding? I couldn’t tell. What choice did I have anyway? I was soaking wet, freezing, and miles from the vineyard.
I balled my hands into fists and took several strides toward the truck. “ Fine. But I’m only coming with you because you look like an idiot standing out here in the pouring rain.” I got in the truck, and he shut the door behind me.
“ Well, so do you, Heels.”
***
Thatcher pulled up to a run-down little restaurant and was trying to coax me inside.
“ I don’t want pancakes,” I said. “I don’t even like pancakes. I want to go home.”
“ See, there’s your problem. You want pancakes so bad you don’t even know how bad you want ’em.”
“ I look awful. I’m soaking wet.”
“ You’ll blend in. And nothing a hot cup of coffee can’t fix.”
“ No, thank you.”
He turned the engine off. “ Suit yourself. You wait in the truck while I go have me some of the best pancakes on the planet.”
He got out of the car and walked across the parking lot. I sighed heavily, opened the truck door, and followed him.
Inside, the place appeared as if it had been frozen in time around 1978. Ruffled flowered curtains adorned the windows. The booths were made of a mustard yellow vinyl. I looked around and took it all in. Was this place for real?
We were seated in a corner booth by the window. A smiling older woman approached us and did a double take.
“Why, Thatcher Bartholomew James. As I live and breathe!”
Thatcher looked up from the menu. “Hi, Ms. Betty.”
“ Hi, sweetie. Now you take off your hat in my restaurant like a proper gentleman. You know better.”
“ Yes, ma’am, Ms. Betty.” Thatcher removed his hat and placed it on the booth next to him.
The woman turned to me. “And who’s your girlfriend?” she asked.
“ I’m not his
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