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“It’s not my fault I didn’t know how much tow trucks are supposed to cost.”
“I’ll come get you, I’ll take care of the tow truck, and we’ll get some lunch. I haven’t eaten yet either. I’ve already sent a text to Cora letting her know what’s going on and that I might be gone the rest of the day.”
“The whole day?”
“Don’t worry,” I soothe. “You had an office day today, right? No patients?”
“Yeah,” she drawls, and my plan solidifies.
“Can you take the rest of the day off? We’re buying you a new car.”
I called the tow service and had them haul her hunk of junk Ford Fiesta to the scrap yard because no dealership would ever take that flaming pile of garbage. She tried to tell me over lunch that it was probably a simple fix. But when I reminded her she’s had several major fixes in the last year, and then showed her my handwritten calculations on the back of the diner’s paper place mat, she relented. In the last year she had spent three times what it would cost to have a new vehicle.
“How about this one?” she asks, walking away from the big SUV I was just pointing to, wearing a casual white and blue striped dress and sensible flats. I know her feet are starting to hurt carrying the extra weight and I can see her ankles swelling a little from the heat—further fueling my desire to get this over with and get her home and resting.
She bellies up to a ten-year-old Impala and tries to look inside, placing her face against the window and blocking the sunshine over forehead.
“You remember you’re having twins, right?”
“You remember my budget, right?”
“Ang, come on. We need something bigger than a sedan.”
“You have your Range Rover and I’ll have a car. It’s what I can afford, Raf.”
“Let me help you with the cost.”
She cocks her head back like she’s rubber-necking next to a traffic accident. “Excuse me, no. I can pay for my own vehicle, thank you very much.”
“I just mean… You’re having my babies too. I want to make sure the cars they ride in every day are safe.”
As she turns around to face me, her posture immediately changes into something rigid, her shapely eyebrows pulling together. “Are you thinking about what happened to my mom?”
“Kind of, yeah.” I admit, coming to stand next to her and leaning my hip against the front driver’s side door. I want to smooth a finger over the crease above her slender nose. Instead I sigh. “I’m not saying her death could have been avoided by having a safer car. I’m just saying I’d like to make sure that box is checked. I want you in the safest vehicle possible, not the safest for your budget.”
Her eyes narrow and she considers me for a long moment before saying, “Maybe. How about I contribute what I planned on paying monthly? Like how I’m paying for living with you.”
Oh. You mean the money I’ve been funneling into a high yield investment account for you? I think to myself. Instead I say, “That works.”
“Hey there, folks,” a slender white car salesman waves, walking up to us with that customer service grin you know he’s required to have. “What can I help you find today?”
“My car died,” Angie says and I want to cut her off and whisper in her ear to not look so desperate. He can smell the sale. “It’s time to replace it.”
“Oh no,” he replies, putting his hands in the pockets of his khakis and rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, I can definitely help you find the right vehicle. What color are you looking for?”
Angie goes still and I watch her mouth slowly drop as she twists her head to face me. Her eyes are wide, a little crazed even, and I know exactly what she’s thinking before she even says it.
Get him, Ang.
She turns to him and crosses her arms. “Why is that the first question you ask me?”
“Um,” he drawls.
“Would you have asked him that question?” she asks with a nod in my direction.
“Probably?”
“I don’t think you would’ve,” she whispers. “So why don’t we start over and you don’t pretend I know nothing about cars and I don’t pretend you asked me that sexist question?” Her cheshire grin has made its way to my face now.
