The inside of the car was silent except for the occasional squeal of guitar from the radio station stretched to the very edge of its range. The inside of my head was ready to burst, though, from the argument raging in the palm of my right hand, typed with furious fingers.
"I told you. I'm already in the car, driving. I have been for hours. You won. Get off my ass" I typed.
I had a moment to massage my aching forehead where the veins were surging before his reply slid up on the tiny screen. "If you're going to be my wife you need to lose the fucking attitude."
I threw the phone into the passenger seat where it bounced against the door, and I slammed the pedal down. It was always "if you're going to be my wife," this and "where I'm from, women..." that, as if the diamond studding my left hand was a tiny collar with a leash.
"Fuck!" I exclaimed, as the highway split and I shot down the wrong side of the divider. A friendly sign stated "Welcome to Kansas." I cursed at it, too, as I looked for a good place to turn around. Traffic was fast, and a lot of truckers had the pedal to the metal as the weekend drew near, trying to get home to their families. My scarlet Firebird darted from lane to lane, seeking an exit, but it was several miles before I finally managed to veer off onto a dirt road, kicking a giant cloud of dust behind me as I sputtered off.
My phone was buzzing again. I fished it out of the floorboard just in time to miss a sixth call from Jeremy. I scrolled briefly through the expletive-laced texts, swerving as I read the culmination "You're pissing me off!" As if I was supposed to be afraid of his irritation. I threw the phone back in the passenger seat as it began to buzz again, and I glared at the road as I barreled down it, burying my car in dust.
I pulled my sunglasses off the shade and shoved them into position, shaking the short, blonde strands out of my face as they suddenly irritated me beyond baring. I took a deep breath and took my foot off the gas. I needed to calm down before I wrecked. Plus, I needed to concentrate on getting back to the highway. Jeremy would wait. Or he wouldn't. At this point I didn't care.
She was walking beside the road, her shirt tied up against the heat and sweat shining on her bronzed skin. Her long, dark red hair was blowing gently in the slight breeze, although the straw cowboy hat was holding it in place. Her plaid shirt was open at the neck and at the cuffs, but she wore long jeans that tapered tightly down to her cowboy boots.
"Oh god. She must be dying of heat stroke." I said aloud, slamming the brakes.
I skidded to a halt some ways past her and buzzed down a window, waiting for her to catch up. The heat rolled into the car, nearly gagging me.
Her skin was frosted with dust, now, as she took off her hat to lean into the car. I could see now that she wasn't as young as I'd assumed, probably a few years older than myself, in her early thirties from the crow's foot laugh lines around her eyes.
"Do you need a ride?" I asked. I wasn't in the habit of picking up hitchhikers, but I hated to leave another woman stranded on such a hot day.
"I can't say I'd mind one, but I've got a long way to go," The woman said.
I glanced down at my phone screen, lit up with yet another call. "I've got time," I said. "Plus, I honestly have no idea how to get back to the highway."
"I saw you have Maine plates. I wondered where you were going."
"Hop in and you tell me."
She opened the door and scooted the still buzzing phone into the cup holder. I glared at it as if Jeramy could see my face through the phone.
"Not someone you want to talk to?" She said, folding her long legs into the car and hanging her hat on her knee.
"Or about," I snapped unfairly.
She overlooked my rudeness with a graceful extension of long, browned fingers. "My name is Lori, by the way. Thanks for the ride. It gets awful hot around here."
"I'm Claire. Sorry for the crabbiness. My fiancé is giving me fits," I said, maneuvering the car back into gear and taking off at a less wild pace.
