cold, left out too long, until they were raw. She had no idea
why. Worry. Worry over this woman. That was it.
It definitely was her car. She unlocked the door with the key
in the lock and then leaned over and undid the passenger lock.
Giana pulled open the door and slid down, landing on the hard,
old seat. The car was impressively clean, even if it was old. It
smelled like the cherry air freshener that was hanging from a
vent in the dash.
The woman turned the key and the thing protested as it
made strangled sounds, then finally turned over with a
grinding that couldn’t be good. It was clearly on its last legs.
Giana tried not to wince. She wanted to say something. She
didn’t know what.
“It just takes a minute to warm up.” The woman was
nervous. Her hands were tucked into her pockets of her coat.
She didn’t have mitten
s. Giana didn’t have her gloves either.
Leather gloves. A gift from her mom at Christmas. She didn’t
know how she knew that either. “It never really gets warm.
You’ll have to excuse it. It’s old and the heat sucks.”
“I’m sorry,” Giana whispered. She didn’t like to apologize.
That wasn’t her. She could tell by the burn it left in her gut.
“For what?” The words were nervous.
For this car. For treating you like you aren’t the woman I
can’t live without. For letting you think it’s okay to let me treat
you this way. For hiding you. For not being brave enough to
have you at my side, taking care of you like I should be doing.
For everything.
“I don’t remember your name. I’m sorry. That’s rude. And
horrible.”