Page 12 of Come Take Me Now

I roll my eyes at her. “I’m good.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You know, acting like you’re too cool for normal girl things makes you a ‘pick me’ and no guy wants to date a girl like that.” Enzo thought I was likable. She brushes my hair over my shoulders and gives me that condescending smile. “I know you were pretty serious about your ex.”

“We weren’t serious.” I cross my arms over my chest. Once I get my car back, fuck it. I’ll leave my stuff at my dad’s and go straight to Sacramento. “And you probably shouldn’t call your stepdaughter a ‘pick me’,” I snap, brushing past her.

“You need to grow up, Tilly,” she mutters after me.

I sit on the fluffy comforter and pull out my laptop from college—another gift from my dad—and look up my grad school in San Diego again. I map Napa to San Diego—nine hours. Further from Sacramento. I use Street View to study the road my student housing will be on, too. It’s so close I can almost taste it.

It might be hard to be so far from Mom, though.

But it’s just for two years unless I find a job there. I loved San Diego when Mom, Rick, and I flew down there a few times for various breaks. It’s a smaller metroplex and was more appealing then because Dad didn’t live there.

To kill time, I search for the car Enzo said Mick was repairing. What was it called? It started with an S. Not a Subaru. I search “car makes that start with S”. Not a Suzuki or Scion. I scroll through the list.

Saab.

I gasp when the name clicks and search for a nineties Saab next. My face scrunches up. They seem like compact cars. That can’t be right. He would look ridiculous in something so compact. Maybe I’m not remembering correctly. My laptop pings with a text, and a pop-up appears in the lower corner of the screen.

Dad: Let’s go.

I clip my hair up, leaving the lower layers down my back. I slip into sneakers and reach for my wristlet from the dresser. When I meet him in the garage, he unlocks his new, sleek Genesis sedan. It still has the new-car smell. Enzo’s truck smelled better, but it could have been just him. The cloth seats were more comfortable than these leather ones, too.

“Where’s this place?” he asks, opening the GPS on the built-in touchscreen. My eyes widen. I couldn’t route us there from memory. My pulse quickens as I pull my phone from my wristlet and look up mechanic shops. There aren’t many in Napa, and most are chains. I click on the one that looks most familiar and show it to him.

“I think it was this one.”

He rolls his eyes. “I hope so, but I know where that is.”

“Okay, cool.” I sigh in relief.

He backs out of the garage and heads down the two-lane highway toward Napa. “I hope you’re not driving that thing to San Diego,” he mumbles.

“What else am I supposed to drive?” I ask quietly.

“Let me help you with a car. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy unless that’s what you want. I’ll give you a budget, and you can pick out whatever you want,” he says and keeps his eyes on the road.

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’d rather stick to my car,” I reply. I notice the way his jaw clenches, but if I accept a gift like that from him, it signals that I forgive him. And it’s funny how childhood trauma sticks around into adulthood.

The longest twenty minutes of my life later, he pulls up in front of Mick’s shop. I slump in my seat when a certain red truck isn’t here, not that it would be, but I can still picture the large pickup with a trailer parked out front.

“This is it,” I whisper, keeping my eyes on the shop. And maybe trying to manifest that red truck into pulling up.

He parks the car and picks up his phone. “I’ll send you cash for this.” That I will accept. My mom doesn’t have the same disposable income my dad does, and I really didn’t want to ask her for help.

“Thank you.”

“But if this damn car breaks down one more time, it’s getting traded.” My stomach churns as my phone buzzes with a notification that I received money. “Is that clear?” His beady blue eyes flicker up to mine. These are his terms for covering this repair, and all I can do is pray that nothing happens again. I’ll buy myself a new car once I have a job after grad school.

“Yep,” I answer.

“You can make it back home, right?” Dad says.

“Should be good. My phone’s charged, and my car should be all better,” I answer. “Have fun at golf.”

“Always.”

I hop out of the car, and he drives off as I open the door to the bland lobby of the shop. “Hey, Tilly,” Mick greets me, coming in from the shop door. He wipes his hands with a red rag and tosses it on the counter.