“That’s why,” he sighed, looking at what I’d bought.
A 1989 Suburban. Blue with white paneling. It was a thousand feet long, a thousand feet wide, had actual carpet on the floor, and smelled liked pine.
“Oh, Chloe,” he said, his mouth quirking up at the edges as he struggled not to laugh.
“What? It’s great! Wait until you see how it handles,” I said, tugging at the driver’s-side door, which tended to stick a little.
“So what did you pay for this car?”
“Nothing! I got a great deal on my trade-in and—”
“You traded in your convertible?” He was no longer laughing. “Can I please see the paperwork?”
“Hey, I handled it, it’s no big deal. I looked online at the trade-in value before went in, on that Carrie Blue Book site? And this car was priced at almost exactly what my car was worth! And the best part is, I even talked the guy into giving me free car washes for the entire year. I was all wheely dealy,” I said proudly, climbing into my new car. I slammed the door shut, and then rolled down the window. “Look, manual windows! How cool is that!”
“Very cool. Did you happen to notice it’s leaking under the engine?”
“The guy said it did that sometimes, but was perfectly normal for a car this old. What color is it?”
“Green.”
“Oh, yeah, he said if it did that, to just bring it back; they’ll top something off.”
“Chloe, you really should have taken someone with you,” he said, shaking his head. “This is a piece of shit. They saw a pretty girl with a nice BMW, and they totally took advantage of you. We need to go back and get this straightened out. You can’t keep this car.”
“Like hell I can’t!” I climbed out of the car. He was taking away my buzz and I was started to get pissed. “I know what you think: stupid, pretty Chloe can’t handle her own problems. But I got this, okay? I’m not taking the car back.”
“I’m not trying to start a fight here. Of course you can take care of your own problems. But have you ever done this before? Bought a car?”
“No,” I allowed, the spike of anger giving way as quickly as it came.
“Chlo, I took my dad with me the first time I bought a car. Hell, I took him with me the first three cars. It’s kind of a big deal, and you want to make sure you’re not getting, well, taken advantage of,” he said softly, tapping on the hood of the car. A bit of rust fell onto the asphalt.
Ah, fudge, what had I done? I’d been excited to get this car, but I did have a funny feeling afterward that maybe I’d acted too impulsively. And now that funny feeling was back in the pit of my stomach.
“I just wanted to take care of it on my own, you know?” I asked, turning toward him. He wasn’t laughing, he wasn’t mad, he wasn’t making fun of me. “That’s all.”
And then the tears came. Oh, for God’s sake. Between the emotions of picking up the dog this morning, the conversation with my mother, the excitement over getting the car, and now this . . .
“Hey, c’mere,” he murmured, and just like that I was in his arms.
And now that affected me. I buried my face in his chest, feeling the tears spill over.
“So stupid,” I sniffled. I nuzzled into his shirt, not caring that I was in the middle of the parking lot, just needing to be held. Was that so terrible? I couldn’t admit earlier that I needed someone’s help, but I could totally and completely admit that in this moment, in this space, I needed to be in someone’s arms. His arms, specifically. “Oh, God, I totally just sold my car for this beast didn’t I?” I laugh-cried, clutching his back.
He said nothing, which was wise. He merely pulled me closer, rocking me as I cried. When there was a tear stain the shape and size of Florida on his shirt, I finally pulled back. Clutching his arms, I blinked up at him. “What in the world am I going to do?”
“We’re going to go back there first thing tomorrow morning and get this worked out. Don’t worry about it,” he said, wiping away a lingering tear.
“Are you sure? What if they don’t take it back?”
“They will. We’ll work it out.”
“Sorry about your shirt,” I said, brushing at the wet spot.
“No problem. At least you managed to cry in the shape of a giant dick.”
“That’s Florida!” I cried out, no longer brushing but slapping.
“No, it’s not,” he insisted, holding my hands to stop the slapping.
I stopped and gazed up at him. “I’m so embarrassed. It’s just been a weird day.”