Page 112 of The Fake Out

“I think I almost have it.” I pulled as hard as I could. It didn’t budge.

“Let me do it.”

“No,” I yelled, clutching the tire iron like it was my firstborn child and Chris was the goblin king. “I got this.”

I didn’t have it.

But Chris stood back and watched me struggle for a solid three minutes. I knew I’d been the one to call him. I knew I couldn’t get that lug nut off. But for some reason, I could not relinquish that tire iron to him. It was madness.

Maybe I was finally losing it.

One more huge effort on my part, but my foot slipped out from under me. I fell hard on my backside, covering half of me in a coat of slimy mud and the other half in splatters and spots like a very sad Dalmatian. Stunned, I froze.

A hand appeared in front of me, big and solid. “Come on.”

I wanted to smack it away. I didn’t want to need help. But I didn’t have any other option, did I? Finally, I let him pull me up.

“Why don’t you go get in my truck? You can dry off some. I’ll take care of this,” he said close to my ear so I could hear over the roar of the storm.

“I’m covered in mud.”

“It can be cleaned.”

I pointed at the tire. “I can get that. I know I can.”

He took a step back and put his hands on top of his head, eyes burning with intensity, his shirt plastered to his chest from the rain. “Please go to the truck and let me do this.”

“But—”

“Go sit in the damn truck,” he roared.

I gasped and held out the tire iron. “Okay. Fine. You don’t need to yell.”

“Now,” he growled.

I made my way to his truck, my shoes squelching in the mud with each step. There were two towels on the seat. I used one to sit on and the other to dry off as best I could. He’d left the engine running and the heat on full blast. Still, I was shivering when he finished and climbed in next to me.

“It’s done.” After pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, he reached into the back seat and pulled out a gym bag. From it came another towel and two dry t-shirts. He tossed me one. “Put that on.”

I was too cold to argue but I twisted around as best I could to try for a modicum of modesty. My poor I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie t-shirt was a sopping wet, muddy mess.

“Give it,” Chris said, his voice gruff, when I turned back. He stuffed it into a plastic bag and tossed it all in the back seat.

Staring out the front window, his hands wrapped around the top of the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white. Frustration radiated off him in waves.

“You have got to be the most exasperating person I have ever met. And you’ve met my sisters. Still, you beat them all out. You are confusing, stubborn…” His voice trailed off. “Why did you call me if you didn’t want my help?”

I rubbed at the tightness in my chest. My voice was very small. “I didn’t have anyone else to call. Mama can’t help. Iris wouldn’t know what to do. Ali doesn’t drive.” I turned to stare out the window and sniffled. “You’re the only one.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I shrugged and wiped my nose. “I’m used to it. It’s always been that way. I can depend on me. I guess I don’t know any other way.”

A beat of silence. “You could learn.”

“I don’t want to learn. I—I just want my life to go back to the way it was be-before you came along. Sure, it was a lot of work, and I was tired, but it was predictable. I had a plan and I followed it.” My breathing sped up and my nose stung, and my eyes felt hot and, oh, no, I was going to cry. “And then you… and I don’t know up from down most days… and it’s messing with my head and… and…”

One second I was sitting in my seat and the next I was hauled over to Chris’s lap like a rag doll. He was so freaking strong.