Town With No Memory

SAMANTHA

I’ve been driving past vineyards and orchards for miles now, and they just keep coming. Suddenly, my car starts belching out thick smoke from under the hood.

I pull over and lift the hood. Smoke billows out, obscuring everything.

How am I supposed to fix this? I know how to change a tire, not how to fix a smoking engine. And how am I going to afford this?

If I need to order parts, it’s going to wipe me out. My life really sucks.

Just as I’m thinking that, an old blue truck pulls over behind my van. A guy about my age gets out.

He’s wearing boots, a red plaid shirt over a grey T-shirt, and a big cowboy hat. Where am I? The wild west?

And maybe it’s the engine fumes, but I can’t help but check him out as he climbs out of his truck.

“Looks like you’re in a bit of a bind. Need some help?” he asks, walking over.

“No, I’m good,” I say, turning back to my smoking engine. The last thing I need is to be kidnapped by a cowboy. What I do need is a tow truck.

“Well, it sure looks like you could use some help. Got someone coming to get you? Family?” No such luck, cowboy. “You can use my phone if you need to,” he offers.

“No thanks, I’m going to call a tow. But thanks for offering,” I say. I don’t trust him. But then again, I don’t trust most people.

“Alright. If you want to wait, that’s your call. But the only tow guy around here is Earl, and he won’t be able to get here for another hour. I just came from his shop.

“I can give you a lift into town so you’re not stuck out here in the heat,” he offers again.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Like I said, I’ll call,” I tell him again. Why am I being so rude? He’s just trying to help.

“Suit yourself, miss. But I’d feel awful leaving you out here all alone,” he says, leaning against my van.

“Why?” I ask. He’s starting to make me nervous. Why won’t he leave? “I can take care of myself.”

“Because it wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”

“Well, that’s nice, but I still don’t need your help.”

“And why’s that?” he asks, smirking in a way that makes me want to wipe that smile off his face.

“Because I’m managing just fine on my own,”

“Are you sure it’s not because you think I’m a serial killer?” he asks.

“How would I know? I don’t know you,” I tell him, making my point clear. “And you calling yourself a serial killer isn’t helping your case.”

“You should stop making assumptions about me. You’re not very good at it,” he laughs.

“It doesn’t matter.” I finally give up. “I don’t need your help. You can go.”

“Alright, if you say so.” He shrugs and heads back to his truck. “You sure you’ll be okay?” he calls back.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, thoroughly tired of his southern charm.

From the front of my van, I hear him mutter, “Back to square one, then.”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best idea to send away my Good Samaritan.

When I called the town’s only mechanic, he told me it would be an hour and a half before he could get to me.

Now I’m stuck in the blistering heat, with my smoking van as the only source of shade. He was a stranger, but he was just trying to help.

I’d rather be kidnapped and ride in an air-conditioned car than sit here in this heat for two hours.

When the mechanic finally arrives and hooks up my poor van to his truck, I climb into the front seat with him. He’s a chatty old man in his late sixties, I think, with a big gray beard. He talks non-stop about everything under the sun on the ride into town.

As we pull into his shop, guess who’s waiting there. My Good Samaritan. Yep, he’s sitting on his tailgate, smirking. I bet he does that a lot.

“Hey Austin, what brings you back here?” Earl, the mechanic, asks the cowboy, who I now know is named Austin. “Your shift ended two hours ago.”

“Just couldn’t resist a damsel in distress,” Austin says, winking at me.

“I am not a damsel. And I was not in distress,” I say, stomping my foot like a petulant child.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Austin says. He looks like an Austin should: dark, almost-black hair, tan skin, and green eyes. But what am I even saying?

This guy has been annoying me since we met, I can’t be checking him out. But unfortunately, my rescuer has the body of a Greek god.

“Why are you here?” I ask him.

“I work here, believe it or not. Just wanted to make sure you and Earl didn’t need any help,” he says. Why does he have to be so darn helpful?

It’s hard to stay mad at someone who’s only ever tried to help you.

“Y’all know each other? Small world, huh?” Earl interrupts, his Southern drawl thick and warm.

“Tiny,” Austin agrees, his smirk never wavering as he lets out a hearty laugh.

It’s the kind of laugh that fills a room, leaving no space for anything else. The kind that makes you want to join in, even if you don’t know the joke.

“Too tiny,” I mutter under my breath. Austin hears me and his laughter grows louder.

I’d probably find it charming if it were anyone else. But it’s Austin, and I’ve got this grudge against him that I can’t seem to shake.

“So, what’s the deal with my baby?” I ask Earl once the laughter dies down.

“Your baby?” Earl looks me up and down, clearly confused.

“My van,” I clarify.

“Ah, gotcha. It’s the radiator. Cracked. You’re gonna need a new one,” he says, peering into the engine.

“How long will that take?” I ask.

“About a week to get the parts, then a couple days to install,” he says, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

“You’ve got to be kidding! Two weeks for a radiator? Don’t you have one lying around?”

“Sorry, miss. This ain’t the big city. And your van ain’t exactly common.”

“There has to be another way,” I plead.

“Sorry, miss. You’ll have to stay at Miss Susie’s down the road till I can fix it. I’ll call you when the parts come in.”

I reluctantly give him my contact information and ask for directions to the bed and breakfast. Austin points me down the road, telling me it’s the last house on the right.

Apparently, this town doesn’t have a single hotel.

When I get to Miss Susie’s, there are—surprise, surprise—no vacancies. So now I don’t even have a place to stay, not even in my van.

I guess I’ll have to grab some stuff from my van and figure out a plan. Maybe there’s a hotel in a nearby town.

Hopefully it’s not too far, because I’ll have to walk.

When I get back to the garage, it’s empty. “Earl? You still here?” I call out.

“In the back,” he yells from somewhere down the hall. I walk down a long hallway lined with pictures of cars, probably Earl’s favorites.

Austin’s still here, leaning against a wall while Earl sits behind an ancient computer.

“I just need to grab some stuff from my van. Can I get the keys?”

“They’re on the hook by the door,” he says, pointing behind me. I try to avoid making eye contact with Austin, but I can’t help but notice him watching me.

I grab my keys and hurry out of the room, but I jump when a hand grabs my elbow in the hallway. I instinctively back up against the wall, wincing.

When I realize it’s just Austin, I try to calm my racing heart.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, holding his hands up. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, my heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm.

“Did you get a room at the bed and breakfast?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie.

“Are you lying?” he asks.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I do. So, did you get a room at Susie’s?” he asks again, daring me to lie. I decide to take the dare.

The last thing I need is for this guy to feel sorry for me.

“Yes, I did.”

“You’re lying.”

“What?!” Well, shit.

“Your eyes give you away,” he says. I quickly look away. “You need a place to stay.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’m sure you are. But you don’t have to. I’ve got room at my place.

“You can stay there till your car’s fixed,” he says, heading for the exit as if I’ve already agreed. I have to hurry to catch up.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, but he just keeps walking in those damn boots.

“But I do.” He grins at his own joke. “If you knew my mama, you’d understand.” He must see the confusion on my face because he explains.

“If she found out I let a girl sleep on the streets when I could’ve helped, she’d have my hide. It wouldn’t be pretty,” he says.

He opens the passenger door of his truck. I just stand there, stunned. Am I really going to go with him? This feels like a recipe for disaster.

I’ve made a lot of dumb decisions on this trip and met a lot of dumb people, but I’ve never met anyone who’s offered to help me like this.

And I don’t know if I would’ve let them. If it was anyone but this cowboy with a smile that could stop traffic, I would’ve said no.

“You getting in?” he asks.

“Yeah. I mean, yes,” I say, climbing into the truck.

The only sounds are the radio and the ticking of the engine. Should I start a conversation? Should I not? “So where are you from?” he asks.

“Nowhere in particular. Just wandering,” I say, dodging his question.

“Everyone’s from somewhere. Everyone has a place they call home.” If only he knew how much I longed for a place to call home. Anywhere but that house with its broken walls and locked doors.

If there was any place that felt like home, it was the café where I worked, or the McDonald’s I frequented on my way there, or even this truck. Any of these places felt more like home than that house ever could.

“It’s a long story,” I murmur. I quickly realize that starting a conversation might not have been the best idea. Silence is always preferable to answering questions I can’t.

“So, where are you headed?” he asks, his Southern accent adding a sweet lilt to his words. With an accent like that, it’s easy to picture him as a simple country boy, more familiar with horses and fields than anything else.

I could easily believe that he knows nothing about literature, the world, or the arts.

But the way he asks questions, the way he looks at me like he sees right through me, suggests that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

The way he looks at me is unnerving, almost as if he can read me, as if he knows me without me having to say a word.

“I don’t have a destination,” I admit, stealing a glance at him. But his attention is on the road.

“And let me guess, that’s a long story too?” He chuckles, but there’s no mockery or frustration in his laughter. He doesn’t seem bothered by my reticence or my lack of conversational skills.

Instead, he behaves as if it doesn’t matter to him, as if he already knows, or will soon enough.

“Not even a story at this point.”

“You seem to be full of secrets and unanswerable questions,” he observes, his tone light, but his gaze serious.

“It would be easier if they were true or false questions. Then I could answer them all,” I quip.

“True or false: you like spaghetti and meatballs.” He laughs at his own joke, and this time, I join him. When I don’t respond, he asks, “What? Is this one too complicated?”

“No. This is one I can answer! True! Very true.”

“Good, because that’s what my mom’s making for dinner,” he says, grinning.

“That’s it? That’s all you want to know?”

“Yep,” he replies, emphasizing the P.

“You’re not going to ask how I plan to repay you? Or even what my name is? You know nothing about me and you’re okay with that? I could be a serial killer!”

“Well, your name would be good to know, but it sounds like you’re only answering true or false questions and that’s going to take too long to guess.”

“My name’s Samantha Hills, and just for the record, I am not a serial killer.” I smirk at him.

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed!” He feigns shock. “This is such a surprise.”

“Yep, sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t kill people.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam,” he says. No one’s ever called me Sam before. “I’m Austin Cooper, and as shocking as it may be, I haven’t killed anyone either.

“But I did hit my neighbor’s cat with my car once. It’s not dead or anything, it just limps around the neighborhood now.”

“Oh my gosh! That’s even worse! Now it’s suffering.”

“No, now it gets sympathy points. Trust me, it gets extra attention and food from everyone now. I think I did it a favor.”

“Whatever, you’re a cat hater.”

“And you’re not a murderer. We’re all disappointed.”