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When I come to, I feel the presence of a man. My vision is blurred from down on my back on the soft shoulder of the road, and I can’t make him out too well.
“Sir,” he says. “Sir, are you okay? Would you like me to call an ambulance?”
I slowly sit up.
“I just need to gather my breath,” I say in a hoarse voice.
When I speak it feels like the skin at the back of my throat is peeling off. That’s how dry-mouthed I am. Note to self: maybe it’s not such a good idea to go for a jog with two good-sized shots of whiskey in me and a bit of a heart condition which only makes my acute anxiety even worse (thank God for medication). Maybe I shouldn’t be exposing myself to the public when there’s a woman who claims she knows everything about me, loves me, and wants me to write her a book and dedicate it to her. A crazy woman maybe. Maybe a woman who wants to kill me.
My vision returns and I finally get a good look at the man. He’s a young man. Good looking. Thin. Not an ounce of fat and thick black hair cut short on the sides. Clean-shaven, wearing a button-down under a gray wool cardigan, professionally pressed trousers, and leather lace-up shoes. Florsheim’s. He looks like a young lawyer or an accountant. A professional anyway. He’s about thirty-five. I’m a writer. I’m trained to notice these details.
“I’m okay,” I say attempting to get back up on my feet. “I get these panic attacks sometimes and they can make me dizzy.”
“I understand,” the young man says.
I wobble a little when I stand, and he instinctually holds out his hands as if to steady me.
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’ll be alright.”
“You sure now,” he says. Then, pointing to a red, two-door Jeep Wrangler parked across the road on the soft shoulder with the flashers going. “We can give you a ride.”
I swallow something sour while I glance at the Jeep. It’s an older model. Maybe a 2012. I used to own one just like it. Mine was hunter green. I traded it in for the pickup when the heating and cooling system went, and the dealer wanted to hit me up for five grand. I told the shysters to stuff it.
A young woman is seated in the passenger seat of the Jeep. From where I’m standing, I can see she’s wearing a green baseball cap that’s got the word CAT sewn into it in white lettering. CAT, like the manufacturer of farm and construction equipment. She seems thin, at least from where I’m standing. Thin and young. Unlike her professional partner or friend or whatever he is to her, she’s wearing a white T-shirt under a worn Levis jean jacket. The T-shirt has got some kind of black stenciling on it. I’d need my reading glasses to read it from this distance.
“Oh, that’s my wife,” Young Man says. “She works for the community college in Millbrook.”
“She a professor?” I say, not entirely sure why I’m carrying this conversation any further.
“No, she’s a writer,” he says. “She works in the marketing department. She hates it. She’d rather be writing novels.”
Then, as soon as he says “novels,” his eyes squint, and his brow furrows. “Say, don’t I know you from somewhere, Mister?”
I shake my head.
“Not that I know of,” I say. “It’s possible you’ve seen me jogging this road before. I live on the farm down the road on this side of the street. You know, the farm with no livestock or crops.”
Note to self: don’t be willing to give out your home address so readily to a total stranger. It’s my control thing. Or lack of it. Oh well.
“You’re the thriller writer guy,” he says with a smile. “Martin...Martin...don’t tell me.”
“Martin Jordan,” I say.
I attempt to walk a step but feel my knees giving out once more. I reach out and grab Young Man’s shoulder.
“Shit,” I say.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I insist we give you a ride home, Mr. Jordan.”
“It’s out of your way, Mr....” I say.
“I’m Matthew,” he says. “That’s Matthew with two Ts. The lady in the car is Jenny. And it’s not out of our way. We only live a couple miles up the road from you. Up here in the country, that means we’re practically next-door neighbors.”
“It does indeed,” I say, feigning a grin.
“Wait right here,” he says. “Don’t try to walk.”
“Sure,” I say.
Can I feel any more like an old man? Matthew jogs across the street, opens the Jeep door, and hops behind the wheel. Closing the door, he kills the flashers. Turning the wheel, he taps the gas and makes a U-turn. He pulls right up beside me.
“Jenny,” he says, “if you’ll get the door for Mr. Jordan.”
Her pretty, smooth-as-creme face lights up.
“You mean like Martin Jordan, the writer?” she says. “That Martin Jordan?” She opens her door and gets out. “I heard you lived somewhere around here. It’s really cool meeting you in the flesh.”
She gets out and holds out her little hand. I take it in my hand and give it a squeeze.
“Hope my hand isn’t too sweaty,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s your hand and I love, love your books. I’ve read them all. The Vanquished is my favorite, I think. But I love them all. What do you have coming out next?”
“Jenny, let the poor man get in the Jeep,” Matthew insists. “He’s just passed out. He needs to get home.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Jenny says, not without a smile—an adoring smile if I don’t say so myself. “I get carried away with rich and famous writers.”
Rich and famous. If only she knew the truth. She proceeds to climb into the back seat and offers me the front shotgun seat. I thank her.
“Don’t mention it,” she says. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Jordan.”
“Call me, Martin, please,” I say. “Mr. Jordan was my dad.”
“Okay, Martin,” Jenny says while poking her head through the opening between the two bucket seats. “I hope to be like you someday. A famous novelist.”
“Matthew tells me you’re already a professional writer,” I say as we pull out onto the road and drive in the direction of my farm. “Looks like you’re on your way.”
“Ugh,” she says, with a sour face that doesn’t make her any less attractive. “By the time I get home, I’m so beat, I don’t feel like working on my short stories.”
“You just have to make the time,” I say. Then, spotting my driveway. “Up on your right, Matthew.”
“Gotcha,” he says.
“So, what do you do for work, Matt?” I ask, as he taps the brakes and turns onto the gravel driveway.
“I’m a construction project manager,” he says. “A commercial outfit based in the city. I’m forced to commute a few days per week. Kinda sucks.” He extends his thumb and points it at his wife. “I’m hoping Jenny writes a big bestseller. Then I can quit and be a house husband.”
The two of them laugh.
“Hold your breath,” Jenny says.
I open the door and get out.
Closing the door, I say, “Hey, you never know, Jenny. Just make the time to put in the word count. Before you know it, you’ll have a novel.”
“You’ve given me inspiration, Martin,” Jenny says. “I’ll get on it tomorrow morning when I wake up.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Well, thanks for rescuing me, kids.”
“Don’t mention it,” Matthew says.
He shifts the Jeep transmission back into drive since there’s plenty of room at the top of the driveway for him to turn around. It’s exactly what he does. I’m about to head back in the house when he hits the brakes again.
“Oh, hey, Martin,” Jenny says. “Maybe one day you can write me a book and dedicate it to me.”