Chapter 32

Poppy

The first ring of the phone has me thinking that my stomach has decided to revolt against me because I feel like I'm going to hurl. Again.

Why can't I be the type of badass female who feeds off of nerves instead of purging them?

Maybe I need to try deep breathing or take a Lamaze class.

When a second car pulls into the gas station, a sliver of relief cuts through my apprehension. The scene around us could easily be mistaken for the backdrop of a horror movie. At this moment, germs are the least of my worries—I'm more concerned that Harper might return sporting a chopped-off limb as a grim souvenir.

A man exits the second car. I size him up as likely in his early thirties, tall and undeniably handsome, with a head of brown hair.

Why the hell is a man like that in these backwoods?

He throws a glance our way, and I can't help but think he's probably assessing if he's about to stumble upon a crime scene. As Harper makes her way back from the gas station, she crosses paths with him. They exchange a brief hello, his pronounced accent catching Harper's attention for a moment longer than expected before she proceeds to pump gas.

Another ring.

I tap my foot against the gravel. I opened the car door, hoping it would send some air inside to cool my nerves, but I only felt dread.

Will Julian not answer?

" Hello." Julian's familiar voice finally fills the air, and my heart does a precarious skip.

I'm a planner, yet I hadn ' t planned for what I would say to him.

" Julian?" My voice is barely a whisper.

" Poppy," he acknowledges. The relief in his voice turns my eyes into a water fountain—not the pretty Italian kind, either, more like the cheap Home Depot version.

" I ' m sorry," I confess, the words feeling inadequate for the gravity of the situation.

He's silent for a heartbeat. " Why, Poppy?"

" I was…scared, confused…and," I push myself to be honest, yet falter. " Did you know me before I moved into my apartment?" I ask. I recall the shock on his face when I unexpectedly appeared at work. It had seemed genuine.

" No," He replies, but it sounds heavy. " I didn ' t know you." Pause. Why is he pausing? " I have some stuff I have to explain, Poppy."

What does that mean? That sounds like culpability.

" I want to say it in person." He adds.

My hand shakes. " I just need some time to think, Julian."

" Pumpkin, please come home," he pleads.

The next thing he hears is my snort of air as I cry.

Home.

It's a concept I never thought I'd grasp again. Yet there I was, beginning to find it in Julian. He was helping me build it.

"I just wanted to tell you I love you," I admit. Is loving another man who hasn't been honest just another cycle of a bad relationship? A groan slips from my lips, and then I eye the gas station. I wonder if Harper can get me a bottle of wine? It'd be cheap, and the hangover would be gruesome, but maybe it'd be worth it.

"Don't hang up, Pumpkin, please."

"Did you lie to me?"

"I...yes and no. Let me explain in person."

I close my eyes, torn. "I just need time, Julian. I—" My words are cut short as I see the man approaching Harper. "I have to go," I say, hanging up before Julian can reply. The call was too painful, a complete mess.

I wipe away the tears with the inside of my shirt. Not my proudest moment, but certainly not my lowest either. I fan my eyes, trying to dry the tears—I don't want Harper to see me like this.

"Sorry, miss, their card machine is down, and he doesn ' t have change for a fifty. Do you?" I overhear the man and ask Harper.

I lean over the console for a better look. Up close, his features are striking. I think god just sent Harper a test to see if she truly loves Kent. The man's accent is unmistakably French, and his appearance is straight out of GQ. The old Harper might have convinced this man to take her in the back of his car, but the new Harper merely rolls her eyes, giving his well-structured face scant attention.

"Yeah," she says, "But I'm not foolish enough to pull out my wallet in front of a stranger."

The man's grin is captivating, but nothing compares to Julian ' s warm smile. No one can compare to Julian.

"Wise women," the French man retorts, continuing to step back, giving Harper space. "Just let me know when?" he adds with a flirtatious smirk.

"Wait at your car," Harper retorts sharply. "I ' ll finish first." She handles the nozzle with determination.

He nods, but before turning away, his gaze sweeps into the car and locks onto me. His flirtatious grin fades to something undefinable, as if he recognizes me or thinks he does, even though we've never met before. He nods at me once, how a brother would nod at a younger sibling. Stranger. Unsettling.

Harper opens the driver's door. "Never talk to strangers, okay, Pops? Or take your wallet out where they can snatch it."

"But you talked to him, Mom," I joke.

"I can beat the shit out of that cashmere-wearing prick. You can't," she pauses, then asks, "You cried?"

"Allergies," I simply shrug.

"To men or life?"

" Touché," I smirk.

Harper opens her wallet, revealing a stash of cash. When you're on the run, you use cash or bitcoin, I've learned.

Before she approaches the stranger, she leans in and whispers to me, "There's a gun in the center console. If that asshole tries anything, take it and shoot his cock off."

"What?" I shriek, my eyes darting to the console.

"Jesus, Pops, I ' m joking. But it dried up those tears, didn ' t it?"

"Dried up? You almost made me piss myself."

She clutches her stomach, laughing as she walks over to the stranger. I watch her exchange money with him, then return to the car.

Not fully trusting her, I open the center console to find it empty. "Poppy," she's still laughing, "This is a rental car. When did you see me put a gun in there?"

"How should I know? For all I know, you're going to tell me you have superpowers and just conjured one up."

Her laughter now makes her seem like a drunk driver. I reach over and grab the steering wheel. "Can you focus?" I hiss.

"Fine," she straightens, still fighting back a grin.

Indeed, a complete shit show.

***

"We absolutely cannot sleep here, Harper. Seriously, your jokes about catching an STD barely scratch the surface. If our skin even grazes that—" I gesture toward the so-called bed, an excuse for a mattress perched atop a wooden frame, with a "headboard" comprising merely two flat pillows. "That abomination pretending to be a bedsheet looks like it's harboring its own ecosystem of diseases. I'm pretty sure we contract something just by looking at it."

Taking a hesitant step closer, I continue, "It's porous. It could double as a sponge. I bet they don't even bother washing it between guests. It's practically begging for a biohazard sign."

I glance at Harper, hoping for a laugh, but her worry is evident. Her eyes dart around the room, her tongue flicking over her teeth as if tasting her own anxiety. "I just need a few hours of rest before we hit the road again," she says, her gaze still scanning the room as if it's a crime scene under a blacklight.

Our drive from Texas to North Carolina, our hometown, stretched into a seemingly endless road trip punctuated by countless bathroom breaks. Now, well past midnight and exhausted from the day's journey, we've unwisely opted to crash at the first roadside motel we stumbled upon.

Big mistake.

I'd rather gamble with my luck sleeping in the car than dare to undress even a toe in this room.

"We can always—"

"We can what? Sanitize the whole place with bleach?" I throw my hands in the air in exasperation. "Our only viable options are to caffeinate ourselves to high heaven and keep driving, or, I don't know, maybe sleep in the car."

Harper nods slowly, wrapping her arms around herself, a shiver running through her. "What's that?" Her eyes snap to the corner of the room, her voice tinged with fear.

"What?" I lean my torso closer but wisely keep my toes distant from the disaster zone masquerading as a motel room. Despite having recently come into a trust fund, I've never been one to shy away from getting my hands dirty. But this? This crosses a line for my personal health and safety.

"It looked like a tail," Harper gasps, pointing to the corner with the precision of a sniper.

"A tail?" My voice escalates into a near shriek.

"Rat!" Harper screams.

When it comes to the showdown between my best friend's safety and my own, rats are where I draw the line. You don't go toe to toe against the Trojan horses of the bubonic plague.

Shit! What if a flea had already jumped on me?

I make a break for it, laughter chasing me out of the room like a deranged clown at a backwater carnival. I reach our rental car and pull on the handle with such force I'm surprised it doesn't come off in my hand.

"It was a joke!" Harper's giggle follows me, her amusement clear even from a distance.

"Not funny!" I counter, shouting over my shoulder as I fumble with the car door, eyeing the motel warily. The sight of the curtain at the front desk peeling back sends chills down my spine. "Just open the damn door unless you're volunteering to be the first contestant on 'Who Wants to be a Pickle?'"

The car beeps open, and I practically dive inside, my heart still racing. Harper rounds the car, tears of laughter streaming down her face. "The first what?" She asks between giggles, closing the door behind her.

"Pickle. That man," I jerk my head toward the motel, "gives off serious 'I'd-make-a-lamp-out-of-your-skin' vibes. Everyone knows they have to pickle you first before they mold you into furniture."

Harper erupts into more laughter as she starts the car.

"Thought you were looking out for me, not trying to get me cast in the next horror flick," I grumble, still catching my breath.

"Oh god," Harper clutches at her sides, laughter unabated. "I think I peed a little."

"Just drive, Harper. Floor it. Let's get as far away from this nightmare."

And with that, we leave the motel—and its potential horror stories—behind, trying our luck instead with a few hours of uneasy sleep in a truck stop parking lot, safely ensconced in our rented sanctuary on wheels.