22 22 I went into the grocery store for three things. Lip balm, herbal tea, and a greeting card. The lip balm and herbal tea were for me; the greeting card was for Cooper. It has a picture of a pouty hedgehog on the front, with a silly sentiment inside about keeping your chin up, appropriately themed for a guy whose team has lost their last five games.
My plan for the drive to Denver was to craft a heartfelt, encouraging sort of note to add and make sure it ended up in his bag before the game. I would have hours to debate my closing. XOXO, Whitney? All x’s? Love, Whitney? Just my name? Perhaps a jaunty scrawl of my initials?
Had I stuck to the plan, exited the A&P with those three items and not been swayed by the enormous foam finger on display in the window of our local dollar store across the way, I’m positive I would be on the road by now. The foam finger is to blame. But when I spied it, I thought it would be cute, picturing Cooper’s face, how he would think it was wacky and charming.
We haven’t seen each other in three weeks. Three long weeks. Even our usual phone calls have been cut short, with Cooper either exhausted or testy from enduring day after day of rehab on his knee. But the docs finally cleared him this week and when he called to see if I was still up for coming to see him play, all I could hear was the same doubt in his voice that was there the first time he asked. I tried my best to sound super excited. Which I was, just not about the football part. The see-Cooper, undress-Cooper, get-in-Cooper’s-bed part? Super excited.
Now my truck won’t start.
I try the ignition again, my fingers literally crossed on both hands. I’d cross my toes if I could. Or my eyelashes. Anything that’s remotely crossable, I’d cross it.
And yet, nothing but a weird grating noise. Crikey.
My head drops to the steering wheel. Think, Whitney. Where was the last place you saw a magic carpet? Are you dressed properly to hitch a ride? It’s been years since I thumbed my way anywhere, but I’ll do it.
Just as I start to consider what my cardboard sign will say—“COOPER’S BED OR BUST” seems like a winner—someone raps on the driver-door glass. My feeling so defeated means the sound doesn’t surprise or startle me; in fact, I don’t even raise my head.
Another quick rap. And, while a bit muffled, I’d still know Garrett’s good-humored voice anywhere.
“Contemplating the wonders of the universe, Johnny Appleseed?”
I shake my head back and forth, rolling my forehead along the hard plastic of the steering wheel. Polite decency would dictate I at least roll the window down. The hand crank squeaks with every labored turn of my wrist.
When I finally look Garrett’s way, he has a heavy work coat on, and he’s holding a cup of cheap gas-station coffee in one hand and a roll of those atrocious powdered sugar–covered Hostess Donettes in the other. Breakfast of champions for a redneck with a miracle metabolism.
“Truck won’t start. Cooper’s game starts in eight hours. I’m contemplating the cost of a taxi to Denver and wondering if they’ll accept my undying gratitude as payment.”
Garrett sets his Styrofoam coffee cup on the roof of my truck and chuckles.
“Let’s not panic, shall we? Damsels in distress are my specialty.” He stuffs the donuts in a coat pocket. “Pop the hood for me.”
I yank the hood release and return my head to rest on the steering wheel, hoping if I don’t look, that might help. Garrett offers a few muttered and unnecessary derogatory comments on Japanese automobile design, in between asking me to give the key a turn. After a bit, he drops the hood, kicks me out of the driver seat, and takes my place for a bit of investigation. He looks silly sitting there, so tall that his head almost brushes the headliner. He doesn’t bother to adjust the seat from my short-gal setting, which means his long legs end up folded awkwardly into the small space.
“I’m thinking it’s the ignition switch.”
I groan. “I’m thinking that sounds expensive. And involved. Why couldn’t it just be something simple? Like it needs a hug or something.”
Garrett raises a brow, considering my solution with a wry expression.
“Hugs might work on a Toyota, hell if I know. I’m a Ford guy. Pretty sure hugs would void the warranty on a real truck.” He pulls my keys from the ignition and holds them out to me. “But the part shouldn’t be too bad. Take me a couple of hours to swap it out for you. Maybe we can get you there by halftime.”
I let my shoulders deflate. “Garrett, you’re too nice, but I’m broke. Flat broke. Unless this part can be purchased with ten bucks and one of those hugs, I just can’t afford it.”
“You can’t be without a vehicle, either, Whitney.”
He’s right. Logically, I know he is. But I’ll figure out that part of the problem later. Right now, I have to call Cooper.
Garrett starts to fumble around in his back pocket and when I see that he’s digging out his wallet, I start to worry he’s about to do something wonderfully sweet, but entirely foolish. The kid rents what amounts to a single-wide trailer on the outskirts of town, drives the same truck he bought when he was sixteen, and works at a rural co-op, so if he thinks I’d ever consider letting him spot me some cash, he’s nuts. Saving us both from that uncomfortable conversation, I hold my phone up and shake it in his direction.
“Let me just break the news to Cooper. Can you give me a ride home when I’m done?”
Garrett counts the bills in his wallet and waves me off. A text means I can avoid hearing any disappointment in Cooper’s voice, so I proceed to take the coward’s way out.
You want the good news or the bad news?
My phone rings fifteen seconds later. So much for taking cover behind a digital shield. One deep breath and I answer with my best attempt at an apologetic please don’t hate me, I considered hitchhiking just to get to you kind of hello that I can manage. He must not notice the nuance because he sounds seconds away from grinding his jaw into fine bone dust.
“Now would probably be a good time for me to tell you how much I hate that phrase. The good-news-or-bad-news’phrase. It’s just code. There’s never any good news, just varying degrees of shitty news.”
Silently, I groan. Why does this have to be a situation that proves him right? I kick the toe of my boot into a small crack in the parking lot’s asphalt. “I can’t come to your game, Cooper.”
“What’s up?” His voice lowers, and the disappointment I so wanted to escape is loud and clear.
“My truck won’t start. I’m so sorry, but I stopped at the grocery store on the way out of town, came out, and it wouldn’t start. Garrett’s here and he thinks it’s an ignition switch. He said he could swap it out, but I still need to buy the part and my cash situation means I can’t swing it. He’s going to give me a ride home. I just wanted to tell you what’s going on.”
Cooper breathes steadily but noisily into the phone. “So he’s still there? Garrett?”
I look up. Garrett’s standing in the middle of the lot with his head craned back, gawking at a gaggle of Canada geese flying overhead as he uses one hand to nudge a miniature donut out of the sleeve and into his mouth.
“Yeah. Why? Please don’t be weird about this. He’s helping me.”
“Let me talk to him. I won’t make it weird.”
Garrett looks my way as if his ears are burning. Even from here, I can see he has a spot of powdered sugar on his upper lip. I wave the phone in his direction.
He approaches, swipes a coat sleeve over his mouth, and gives me a wide-eyed look. “Am I in trouble?”
I shrug my shoulders and hand him the phone.
“Hello? . . . Hey, Cooper . . . Yeah, I’m not positive, but pretty sure.”
Garrett walks away, meandering about the lot in a looping pattern as he talks. When he’s done, he hands the phone back and points across the street to the auto parts store, then takes off in that direction without offering any explanation. I lift the phone and Cooper starts in.
“OK, Ms. Not-Cinderella, your Mr. Not-Prince-Charming has this under control. Garrett’s going to get the parts, I’m paying for it, and you’re coming to Denver when he’s done.”
“Dammit, Cooper—”
“Stop.” He sighs. “I miss you, my body hurts like hell, and we’re blowing our season to shit, game by game. I need you here, babe. Please, just work with me on this.”
My heart does the strangest thing then. It somehow melts and swells all at one time. Whether it’s because Cooper just said he needed me or because a part of me has missed feeling taken care of, I don’t know. Since my dad died, there’s been no one to do this—step in and help, even when I claim I don’t need it, even when my pride gets in the way.
Cooper sighs again. “Look, there’s going to be times when I have to do this kind of shit for you, Whit. You might hate it, think I’m being overbearing, or get pissed that I’m paying for things you want to handle on your own. Fine. Be pissed. Just know that underneath it all, I’m doing it for one reason. Because I’m in love with you. No other reason other than that.”
My eyes start to sting. I can hear Cooper breathing, waiting for me to say something.
Just say thank you, Whitney. Thank him for handling this. For being a good man. For loving you.
I clamp my eyes shut and keep them that way. Do all I can to keep my voice steady.
“Thank you, Cooper.”