Free Ordinary Beauty by Laura Wiess Page A

shrugs and stares out the windshield. “I just hope that lady made the call.” He glances back at me. “I couldn’t hear everything you guys were saying, but she wanted you to go with her, didn’t she?”
    I nod.
    “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says. “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome.” I don’t know what else to say or do so I just sit there like an idiot, self-consciously rubbing my fingers to work the cold out of them and flicking my damp, snow-tangled hair from my face. The truck smells like oil, old leather, and warm pennies, which might be the scent of his blood spattered across the dashboard and the fractured driver’s window.
    “So uh, where were you going, anyway?” Evan says finally, breaking the silence. “I mean it’s a bad night to be out walking.”
    This is one question I really don’t want to answer. “I was, um . . . oh, wait. I have to find your cell!” I bend and run my hands along the truck floor until I find it. “Here. Now, please let there be coverage.” Avoiding his gaze, I punch in 911 and wait.
    Nothing.
    Hang up, do it again.
    The screen says SEARCHING FOR SERVICE .
    I hold my breath.
    The screen says SERVICE NOT AVAILABLE.
    “Oh, come on,” I mutter, leaning forward, setting the phone on the dashboard and trying again. “I thought 911 was always supposed to go through on these things!”
    The call does not connect.
    “I can’t believe this,” I say, sitting back in frustration.
    “I can,” he says, and the good corner of his mouth twitches into a brief, wry smile.
    Oh. I was right. It is a great half smile, and I can’t help smiling back. “Stupid question, but how do you feel?”
    “Like shit,” he says, tilting his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have an aspirin or anything, would you?”
    “No,” I say regretfully, thinking how bizarre it is that less than two weeks ago I had over a hundred of my mother’s Vicodin in my purse and no good use for them, and now when there is a good use for one, I have nothing.
    “Not even, like, a Midol?” he says.
    “No,” I say, shaking my head.
    “Really? I thought all girls carried that stuff.”
    I shrug because what am I going to say; that Midol costs money I don’t have, so I just deal with it? That I have some weird, deep-rooted horror of taking pills, any pills, even vitamins, because I don’t know what’s in them? That watching my mother and Candy swallow handfuls of pills and still crave more has cured me of reaching for any of it, even aspirin?
    “Sorry,” I say.
    “It’s all right, don’t worry about it,” he says, shifting slightly and grimacing. “I just have to remember not to move.”
    I study him for a moment, taking in the undamaged side of his profile, his olive green jacket with the brown leather collar, the straight, longish brown hair tucked behind his ears, and the haze of stubble on his chin. His jaw is tight and his breathing is heavy, but I think it’s more from pain than anger and suddenly, it seems very important to find out if I’m right. “You know, you’re being really good about this.”
    He glances over. “What do you mean?”
    “Well, you could be all pissed off and yelling or freaking out or, like, hating me or something . . .” I shake my head and gaze out into the swirling snow. “You do have that right.”
    “Why? I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m not happy about totaling my truck and screwing up my knee—it hurts like a bitch—but getting all pissed off isn’t gonna change anything. What was I going to do, hit you? It was an accident. I just hope this baby can be salvaged.” He reaches out with his good hand and pats the truck’s steering wheel. “Glad my insurance is paid up.”
    “Yeah,” I say huskily because I was right, he is calm and kind and reminding me of someone I used to know, someone who hurts my heart just to think about.
    He glances over at me. “So, you work down at the Candlelight, right?