He chuckles, and instantly, I recognize who the voice belongs to. Without being able to see his eyes, I peer into the face of my former friend Miles Fletcher. His family grew up in a neighboring town less than ten miles from mine, and because of the size, most kids were bussed into one central high school.
We were platonic except for an awkward kiss at a barn party one night after drinking a brand of off-label vodka that caused residual pain and the threat of puking long after we’d imbibed. You know, the type that tastes like gasoline as it cauterizes your throat and burns down your esophagus to churn uneasily in your stomach. It’s cheap and easy to score or steal and sold in liter bottles that cost substantially less than other brands; you pay for it with the repulsiveness of the substance you can barely swallow.
Miles Fletcher has aged since I last saw him at the end of our senior year of high school. I can tell he’s rocking a farmer’s tan by the sallow skin sticking out from his shirt sleeve that draws a sharp contrast to the rest of his arm. It reminds me of my father’s uneven tans from his time in the fields.
“License and registration, please.” He says it politely, but I catch a steely undertone.
I fumble for my purse on the passenger seat.
“This a new ride?”
“Oh, you mean because of the temporary plates.” I smirk. “Yes. It beats putting miles on my lease.”
His eyebrows rise sky high, and I get the impression he’s flabbergasted at who would willingly purchase this junker, bald tires and all.
A girl on the run, that’s who.
I pull out the flimsy plastic of my license, biding my time. How could I be so stupid and careless, allowing myself to speed across the rolling prairie? I drove over miles and miles of pavement, surrounded by tall cornstalks and blue skies, without exceeding the limit.
I motion to my plugged-in phone. “Let me pull up my insurance information for you.” I don’t bother to add that my current policy is for a black Tesla I wrecked. Or that I no longer possess a valid license or the accompanying insurance.
“You don’t have a paper copy?” As if reading my mind, he says dubiously, “Doubt you’ll get reception out here.” He points to a pothole straight ahead. “You have to cross that before it works.”
“I’m sorry, Officer.” I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“Let me guess—you’re saving the environment by not printing it out, just like those damn paper straws that dissolve before I can drink a sip of my pop.” The sneer I give him makes him add, “And yes, lady, I have been out west before.”
My lip quivers, and I try for a woman in distress. “Do you by any chance have a tire pressure gauge?”
“You don’t have one, with tires this shoddy?” He scratches his chin. “I hope you didn’t pay much for this clunker.”
“It’s a Toyota. They run forever.” I cross my arms defensively. “Plus, I couldn’t afford much.” Desperately, I add, “And certainly not a ticket.”
“You should’ve thought of that before speeding like a bat out of hell, uh . . . Mrs. Bradford. Seventy-nine in a fifty-five!” He slaps my license against his palm. “Are you moving here or just passing through?”
“Visiting,” is all I give him.
“Tell you what. I’ll bring a gauge back when I’m done writing you a ticket. You’re going too fast to get off with just a warning.”
I decide now’s not the right time to joke about a rumor in high school about how he couldn’t satisfy his girlfriend and she cheated on him with the quarterback.
Again he scans my license before his eyes drift to my ring finger.
“Sibley, eh?” He taps a finger at the smiling picture of me from three years ago, when hitting my thirties seemed like I’d hit my stride. If only I’d known what was in store for me. “I knew a girl. . .”
Except my last name is no longer Sawyer, and I’m no longer the girl he used to know.
I take a cursory glance at myself in the mirror. How have I aged compared to my classmates, to the general population? I’ve always thought I’ve done well, or at least faked it, able to afford some of the pricier creams and skin procedures to keep a youthful glow that lets me pass for my late twenties.
I decide to test him.
“Fletch?”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t notice his nickname, or if he does, he pays it no mind, laser focused on every detail of my out-of-state license.
And just like the thought of discount vodka, it makes my stomach seethe like I’m back in high school, a red plastic Solo cup pressed to my lips, drinking the vile liquid named after our state. It seems to be the only way to generate brand loyalty for liquor that tastes like an oil field.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and impatient, he says, “We can skip the insurance. Just need that registration, and I can get you on your way.”
“Fletch,” I plead. I hadn’t planned on announcing I was back home, but it looks like I have no choice.
“What?” he says automatically.
“Why’re you such a dumb shit?”
With a swipe, his sunglasses land on top of his head. Narrowed slits regard me with disdain. “What did you just call me?”
I lower my glasses, and our eyes meet. Flicking my index finger and thumb against the license in his hand, I bellow, “Miles Andrew Fletcher, since when did you stop answering to your self-appointed nickname?”
His head instantly bows, a knee-jerk reaction to his mother screaming his full name whenever he was in trouble, which was often. My parents did the same with me.
I grin when his face lights up with recognition. A whistle escapes through the pucker of his
