"You're up early on a Saturday." Mom says as she pours herself a cup of coffee.
I just stare at her, if she was twenty years younger, we could be identical twins. Gray eyes, ash blonde hair, and creamy white skin. We're basically vampires, but I'm ok with that.
"We're going out of town." I say taking a Pepsi out of the fridge.
"Where you going?" She asks.
"Honestly, I have no idea. Wherever she wants to I guess." I shrug my shoulders as I open the Pepsi.
"Just be careful." She warns lovingly. "Also, why do you smell so skunky?" She wrinkles her nose at me.
Shit, the weed. I can't lie, she knows me to well.
"Don't be mad, but she smokes weed and that's what you smell. No, I didn't smoke, just got a second hand high." I explain.
Surprisingly, she's unphased, she even shrugs at me. "Not judging. How do you think I've been handling losing your father? I only stopped smoking because he and I got married. Cops having weed in their houses isn't exactly smiled upon."
Great, mom's a pot head. At least she isn't mad.
"Seriously, be careful." Mom begs.
"We will." I continue drinking.
Mom starts twirling a lock of hair around her index finger and she starts fidgeting. This can't be good, anytime she acts like this, it gets weirds. Like the time she accidentally backed over our mailbox, and was too embarrassed to tell dad. Then there was the time she was forced to apologize to Uncle Nick for calling his wife a whore at the family reunion. One time she got that look when she had to explain to dad why she got in a fight with a tweeker in the Walmart parking lot.
Sighing, I ask, "Am I putting the mailbox back up again, or delivering an apology letter?"
"Oh hush", she playfully scolds. "I just wanted to run something by you."
"Well, I was asked out last night by one of my customers. I just wanted to see if you would be ok with me dating again." She continues fidgeting.
My heart palpates a little, seeing her with someone else would be strange, but I want her to be happy. As much as I hate change, it happens eventually.
"Who is it? "I ask.
"Philip Holt, he works at Home Depot, across from IHOP." She explains.
"When are you two going out?" I ask.
"Tonight."
I smile softly at her. "Be safe, and I love you."
Stitch and I climb into Macey's truck to start our new adventure.
"God, this pollen is killing me." She complains rubbing her temples.
"With Spring comes pollen." I sigh.
Breath taking white and pink rose bushes grow in our yard. Living in the country has always been calming, it's being in town when it's busy that makes me nervous.
Boom! A tire blows out so loud it sounds like cannon fire. We both almost jump out of our skin.
"Wanda! What the fuck!" Macey shouts.
She swerves off the road to inspect the damage. By the sound of her colorful yelling, I can tell this isn't going to be good.
When she gets back in, she says. "Fucking Mercury retrograde! This is some bull shit!"
Macey's explained her spiritual beliefs to me several times, doesn't mean that I understand them. When mom asked me what Mercury Retrograde was, the best I could explain is that it's like crossing Murphy's law with full moons. It's like a few weeks of full moons that causes everyone and everything to go crazy. Personally, I don't believe in it, I believe that if something is going to happen, it's going to happen.
"Calm down, man." I reassure her. "It's just a tire, we're only a couple of miles from Fix Em Mechanic. They'll get it fixed in less than an hour,"
"Argh!" She growls. "This week has sucked! First, my favorite resident died! Then, I missed a day at work due to food poisoning! Now, I have two flat tires!"
I reach around Stitch and pat her on the shoulder in an awkward attempt at a hug. We've been friends since she was in second grade and I was in first.
"Wait, two?" I ask dumbfounded. I only heard one loud boom.
"Some idiots, left some nails in the road, and it punctured the front tires." She grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turn white, and she violently shakes it. "I swear, I hate humans, they suck."
"Dude, you're a human." I laugh as I point out.
"No, sometimes I don't think I am." She scoffs. "Come on, I have one spare, help me change it."
"Stitch, stay." I tell him.
Macey's the main worker on this job, I don't know anything about changing a tire. My job is mainly to hold things and stay out of her way.
"So, who died and why didn't you say anything?" I ask.
"Earl Harrington." She says, changing out tires. "You know I don't like talking about those things. Also, don't talk about it, I'm not even supposed to talk about our clients."
That's Macey code for I don't want to face my feelings. She works as a CNA at the local nursing home. Her favorite residents are veterans because they remind her of her grandpa.
"Sorry, girl." I apologize.
"It's fine, at least he's not hurting anymore." She sighs as she finishes changing the tire, tossing the flat one in the bed of the truck.
"Luckily, we're not far from Fix Em Mechanic." I point out. "This is just a speed bump in our day."
"Unfortunately" She growls. "For once, this isn't your fault Wanda, you stupid bitch."
Macey takes it easy on the flat tire by going the exact speed limit and nothing more. We idle into the mechanics parking lot; an employee comes out to greet us. An employee I recognize. It's the guy that saw at Dairy Queen last night. My cheeks flush with heat, he's even more handsome in the sunlight.
His eyes look past Macey and lock on me, which I'm not used to. Normally, men focus all their attention on her because she's the beautiful, feisty one. I'm sure I'm pretty in my own ways, but I'm quiet and awkward. And what man wants that?
Eyes still on me, he asks, "Names Cyrus. What can we do for you today ladies?"
"Accidentally ran over some nails." She answers.
"Sorry to hear that. If you'll let me, I'll drive your truck into the garage and change it for you." He smiles at me as if I'm the one who owns the truck.
Cyrus climbs into the truck and drives it into the garage.
We walk into the mechanic waiting room, which leaves much to be desired. Two worn out leather love seats sit on each end of the room. Magazines are strung about on a scratched up, old coffee table. Dr. Phil plays on the TV in the corner. There's a cash register sitting on an old wooden counter.
"Did you see how he looked at you?" Macey asks.
"Yep." I reply.
"You think he's cute?" She prys.
I lock up in embarrassment. "Kind of." My voice comes out as a squeak.
"You should ask him out." She nudges me.
"You act like that's possible. Talking to men is difficult, almost impossible for me." I remind her.
We bicker back and forth like an old married couple for at least five minutes before Cyrus returns from fixing the flat tire.
"That'll be sixty-five ninety-five." He rings her up. "That includes the complimentary oil change."
"Dammit, Wanda!" Macey cusses.
Cyrus furrows his brow in confusion. "Who's Wanda?"
"The truck." I pipe in softly.
"Why Wanda?" He asks in amusement.
"Because that's what her grandpa named the truck." I reply shyly. My goofy side decides to come out. "She's wobbling Wanda. Wobble Wanda Wobble." I break out in a goofy little dance that Macey and I made up.
Aaaaand this is one of the many reasons I'm still single.
His lips curl into a smirk. "How about this? I'll give you the pretty girl discount. I'll pay for half of the tire, if you give me your phone number."
"Me or her?" I ask gesturing towards Macey.
"You. Goofball." Cyrus chuckles.
"You don't even know my name." I point out. It's getting easier to talk to him.
"Point taken." He chuckles.
Sheepishly, I put my hand out as an invitation for him to shake it. "I'm Lucy, Lucy Bolton."
He takes my hand and shakes it lightly. "I'm Cyrus." His face takes on an expression of humiliation. "Cyrus Dicks."
Immaturity takes over and I snort in laughter. I'm no better than a twelve-year-old boy. This poor man has the last name Dicks.
"Sorry, I shouldn't laugh." I compose myself.
"No, no." He says with a smile. "I'm used to it." He leans into the counter, props his head onto his fist and looks into my eyes. Heat flushes my cheeks.
"If I go out with you so that you pay for half of her tire, doesn't that classify as prostitution?" My attempt to flirt turns into verbal diarrhea. God, just take me now, I pray.
His eyes widen and his cheeks turn red. "No, no, it's not like that. I'll still give you a fifty percent discount, I was just wanting to get your phone number."
Nice to know that the awkwardness is mutual. "Do you have something for me to write it on?" I ask.
He pulls a sheet of receipt paper out of the cash register and hands me a pen out of his shirt pocket. Nervous, I write down my number. I must admit that he's rather handsome, and I can't expect to find a partner if I don't at least try. Right?