She was leaving Hank's Deli – a local sandwich shop that had gone out of business last winter. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing pink yoga pants along with a cut-off white tank top that looked fabulous with her tanned, tight stomach.
She was carrying a pink duffle bag that perfectly matched her yoga pants, as if the whole outfit belonged in a fitness commercial, the kind where no one ever looked rumpled or sweaty.
As for myself, I was sprawled across the roof of my car, jabbing at it with an orange screwdriver.
When Emory spotted me – as if I'd be hard to miss – she smiled like she'd just caught me masturbating to tentacle porn.
Unlike Emory, I wasn't smiling.
Then again, I never smiled when I saw Emory, not since she'd run off with my boyfriend seven years ago.
Emory was still smiling when she sat down on the deli's top step and stretched out her long, tanned legs over the two steps below. Under the deli's faded green awning, she looked perfectly at ease, sitting there like she owned the place.
I gave a snort of disgust. It was vintage Emory, making herself perfectly at home where she didn't belong.
Like in my boyfriend's pants.
Deliberately, I looked away and started prying once again at the sunroof. The last time I'd done this, it had popped open in a matter of seconds. This time, it was proving to be a lot more stubborn.
From under the awning, Emory called out, "You need to put more oomph into it."
My jaw clenched. What I really needed was to put my fist in her face. In my whole life, I'd never done such a thing, and I didn't plan to either. Still, if I were about to get violent, she'd be number-one on my list of punchable people.
I muttered, "I'll give you oomph, alright."
With obvious delight, she called out again, "What was that?"
With a sigh, I turned and asked, "Don’t you have somewhere else to be?"
She laughed. "What, and miss the show?"
Oh, I'd give her a show, alright.
If Emory had been anyone else from my old high school, she would've offered me a ride or least some moral support. But not Emory. No, what she wanted was to eat popcorn and mock me from the sidelines.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when she reached into her pink duffle bag and pulled out a small bag of nuts. She tore it open and plucked a single nut from the bag. She popped it into her mouth and called out again. "Go ahead. Don't let me stop you."
As if she could.
I looked back to the sunroof and frowned. Maybe I was prying at the wrong spot. I yanked out the screwdriver and moved it several inches to the left.
Once again, I placed the screwdriver's tip between the sunroof and the rubber gasket surrounding it. I pushed long and hard, but nothing happened.
Terrific.
Maybe if I had a hammer, I could pound the screwdriver down as far as it needed to go. But I had no hammer. Cripes, I couldn’t even buy a hammer, considering that Skeezak Hardware – the only hardware store within walking distance – had closed for good last August.
As far as getting a ride, calling anyone in my family was out of the question, because even now, I wasn't quite sure what I should tell them about the festival.
Damn it. If only Chase Blastoviak had given me an answer. But he hadn't. And I had no idea when he would. He did say it wouldn't be long. But what exactly did that mean?
From the steps, Emory called out, "I hope that's your own car."
Oh, for God' sake. She knew it was my car. After all, this wasn't the first time she'd seen me with my vehicle. Just a few weeks ago, in fact, we'd seen each other in the grocery store parking lot.
I'd been loading groceries into the trunk of this same exact car when Emory had parked directly across from me.
She'd been driving a late-model Cadillac. And of course, it was ten times nicer than anything I had ever owned.
Then again, Emory's things were always nicer than mine. Her mom had come from money – and had been marrying up for years. In the process, she'd acquired two gas stations and a car dealership.
If Emory ever needed a ride, she'd know exactly who to call. But I wasn't Emory.
I moved the screwdriver to yet another spot and pushed with all my might.
Nothing happened.
By now, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry – even more so when I looked up and discovered that Emory wasn't the only one watching me.
Sometime in the last minute or so, she'd been joined by someone new but annoyingly familiar. And who was this person?
Chase Blastoviak.
Of course.
Chapter 20
Mina
In his suit and tie, Chase looked strangely out of place – like a diamond in a turnip patch – as he leaned back against the grubby brick exterior of what used to be Hank's Deli.
He was watching me with quiet amusement.
At the sight of him, I froze with my screwdriver in-hand. When our gazes locked, I felt like crawling under my car until both of them went away – Emory and Chase.
Unlike Emory, Chase would have no way of knowing that the car beneath me was my own. Should I explain? And if so, where to begin?
I blurted out, "It's not what it looks like."
From the deli steps, Emory called back, "Are you sure? Because it looks like you're humping your car."
Oh, please. It did not.
I frowned. Did it?
And to think, I'd been worried that I looked like a thief. But noooooo. If Emory was telling the truth, I looked like a car-humping pervert.
With renewed dismay, I looked back to Chase.
He didn't think I was humping the car, did he?
From the look on his face, I wasn't so sure.
As far as Emory, she hadn't yet realized that she wasn't
