Page 16 of Truck Stop Tempest

EVERY NIGHT FOR Aweek straight, Tito came for dinner at The Stop right before closing time. He would wait in his booth for my shift to end, offer to drive me home, and refuse to take no for an answer.

I didn’t understand why, but I didn’t question his motives, either. I liked that he drove me home. I appreciated that he never invited himself inside. Not that I would’ve allowed him in, but I liked that he didn’t ask. Because if he asked, I would have to say no, even though I wanted to say yes. I wanted to ask him in so badly my chest ached.

I couldn’t invite him in because the house on Apricot Lane was not actually my home.

One week had passed. One week of warm rides in a hot car next to a ridiculously hot guy, rather than long walks home, alone, with no coat.

Sunday had come too soon, but not soon enough. I sat in my usual spot in the same pew I always occupied. I straightened the hem of my skirt and admired the silky sage and pink print. I usually wore my work uniform to church, seeing as I had to head straight to The Stop after the service ended. But I’d been given a rare Sunday off, and I took advantage, wearing my new dress and heels. I’d even taken time to put on mascara, blush, and lip gloss.

The worship band played their last song, a gritty rock version of “Amazing Grace,” and Pastor Davies gave his benediction. For some reason, the guilt that usually accompanied his sendoff didn’t settle on me as it had in the past. For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to rush out ahead of everyone else. Maybe because leaving meant going home alone, which meant hanging up my new clothes and most likely not having an occasion to wear them again for a long time.

When I made my way outdoors, I stopped at the top of the stairs and raised my face to the sun. Warm tingles danced across my cheeks. The sky was clear save a few puffs of white. The breeze had a chilly bite to it, but all in all, I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day. Spring was coming. I loved spring.

I started down the steps and nearly tripped over my feet when I saw the tall figure across the street leaning against a tree. Black shoes, black running pants, black sweatshirt. He had one foot propped against the bark, both hands tucked in his pocket.

His face wasn’t hidden. He’d been waiting. Watching.

For me.

I was so thankful for my new dress.

Tito didn’t smile. His slow perusal up and down the small stretch of my body, however, seemed to express that he liked my outfit, too. His gaze landed on my face. His chest rose and fell. He looked away. Shook his head. Pushed off the tree and jogged across the street, stopping at the sidewalk.

I met him where he stood. “Hi.”

He looked over my shoulder, then jerked his chin toward the church. “Why?”

I waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

“Why do I come to church?” I asked, confused.

Tito nodded.

“I don’t know. I like it. I’m happy when I’m here.”

“That the only reason?”

Oddly, I was compelled to speak from the heart rather than cower at his sharp tone.

I started toward the bus stop. “Here, I’m reminded that I’m loved. That I have a Father who loves me. I’m reminded that life isn’t about me.” I sucked in a breath and stopped, turning to face him. “I come to church because I’m learning that no matter my past, no matter my sins, how big or small, I’m forgiven, and in God’s eyes at least, I’m clean. There’s hope for a better life, for a better me.”

“Sins?”

“Yeah.” I started walking again, taking it slow, because the heels, regardless of their price tag, were doing a number on my feet. “I have a past I’m not proud of.”

“You’re just a kid. How many sins could you have racked up?”

And there it was—a kid. I laughed, despite the claws tearing my heart to shreds. Of course, Tito saw me as a child. Everyone did, why wouldn’t he? I was small and slight, with a personality to match. “I’m twenty. Not a kid.”

“Wait.” Tito stepped back and scrubbed a hand over his head. “You’re twenty?”

I nodded. “I know, I look young. Nobody takes me seriously, everybody talks down to me. What’s worse? Even when I was a child, I wasn’t allowed to be.”

It hurt, knowing he thought me young and naive. It hurt enough that I felt that familiar ache in my muscles, the ache that hits right before an ugly cry. “Listen, um…I gotta go.” I stepped out of my shoes, scooped them off the ground, and took off, shouting over my shoulder, “I don’t want to miss my bus.” I ran toward the bus stop. Away from Tito. Away from the emotions he evoked.

“Wait.” He caught me halfway to my destination. I was out of breath. Tito wasn’t. He was, however, breathing heavy, from anger, judging by the burn of his glare and the tight grip of his fingers around my bicep. “Jesus Christ, Tuuli. Why the hell are you running from me?”

“I don’t want to miss my bus,” I mumbled, telling half the truth. Mostly, I ran because I didn’t want him to see me cry. Ashamed, I looked to the ground. My feet were small compared to Tito’s. They were also cold and dirty from running barefoot. Great. I ruined my pedicure.