It’s been a month since I caught them fooling around, but the pain hasn’t dimmed. It took me a whole month to sell my stuff, give my landlord ample notice I was leaving, and set up this damn job interview.
I applied for a few gigs closer to home, but when I saw the posting for a ranch hand in Colorado, I couldn’t resist applying. I’m still shocked they liked my application. I’m still shocked they called me.
Granted, I could show up tomorrow and they might tell me to get lost, but it’s something new, something different, something brave.
It’s something to keep my mind off how badly my heart hurts.
I hope Jacob and Margaret are very happy together in hell.
I press the gas pedal a little bit harder.
I can’t wait to get to Nowhere, Colorado. Not too much further now. I blast my music and stare out the window, driving with one hand down the highway. My car is loaded with my life’s belongings. I sure as hell hope I get the job because if I don’t, I’m going to be stuck in Colorado with no house, no job, and no boyfriend.
Soon my stomach growls and I decide to stop for a quick burger. The only two things at the next exit are a gas station and a fast food chain, so I eat my run-of-the-mill burger in silence, stretch my legs, and fill up the tank. My thoughts alternate between being horrified Jacob was the best I could do and being horrified that I won’t get the job.
I need the job.
I get back on the road and start driving once more. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and start getting myself pumped up about the interview, but I just can’t. I’m still too hurt. The pain is still too fresh.
Unfortunately, my thoughts are so focused that I don’t realize when the speed limit drops from 75 to 55 just outside of Honeypot. The sirens in the rearview mirror catch my attention and I growl in frustration as I pull over.
Dammit.
A ticket is not what I need right now. I barely have enough money saved for a hotel room while I’m in Honeypot. If I don’t get the job, or if I have a bunch of unexpected expenses, I will definitely be living out of my car.
This is a problem because my car is full of clothes, books, and trinkets I couldn’t leave behind.
Taking a deep breath, I place my hands on the steering wheel and wait for the officer to run my plates. I’ve never had a ticket before, but I’ve been pulled over, and I remember the cop explaining that he had to call in the license plate before he even came to speak with me.
After a few minutes, my heart finally begins to slow, and I realize that this was just an honest mistake. Besides, getting a ticket isn’t the worst thing that could happen to a girl like me. By the time the officer gets out of his car and walks toward mine, I’ve convinced myself that I’ll handle this like an adult.
I definitely will not cry in front of this stranger. Maybe I’ve been through a lot, but crying in front of strangers is definitely a hard limit for me. Unfortunately, as I begin to roll my window down – yes, my car is so old that I have to roll the window down – I catch a glimpse of the cop and he’s no tubby police officer.
No, this guy is tall, cut, and fit to be tied.
Dammit.
My mouth goes dry when he approaches and I’m very aware of the fact that I’ve been in a car all day and probably smell like stale French fries.
“Hello, ma’am,” the officer greets me, standing outside my window. He places one hand on top of my car and peers in the window at me. I swallow loudly as I stare at his aviators.
He’s so tall he almost has to bend in half to peek into my car. Suddenly, I wish I was wearing a low-cut shirt to give him a show. He smiles brightly, his perfectly white teeth shining in the evening sunset. And oh, is he filling out that uniform in all the right places.
“Fuck me,” I say out loud, and I immediately cover my mouth with my hand and start shaking my head. Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit. I did not mean to say that out loud. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, and look away, completely embarrassed. I can’t believe I just said that to a stranger.
To my surprise, the police officer doesn’t get upset, though. He just chuckles.
“New to the area?” He says, and I nod, but don’t say anything. “Well, do you know why I pulled you over?”
This is the part where I feign innocence. This is the part where I cry damsel, where I say that I just got out of a bad relationship and I’m trying to get a fresh start. This is the part where I say I didn’t know any better, where I simply say that I missed the sign.
Only when he lowers his glasses and I see his deep brown eyes, I know I can’t lie to this cop.
Something tells me he’ll know whether I’m telling the truth or not.
Something tells me he doesn’t do lies.
“I was speeding,” I blurt out, and again, covering my mouth. What is with my bluntness around this guy?