My passenger-side window didn’t work, so I leaned across the seats to push open the door. At the same time the guy circled behind the car, studying the decals and bumper stickers. Having given the kids permission to decorate, I could hardly ban my mother from displaying her political beliefs: OBAMA FOR PRESIDENT, NO TO THE DEATH PENALTY, SAVE THE ORANGUTANS. .
The blockbuster girl dried her tears with her long dark hair (a dramatic move, but, unfortunately, he missed it) and joined the guy at my window. I turned off the car so we could hear one another.
“Well,” said the girl, “whose car did you borrow?”
“It’s mine.”
The guy smiled a little. “Are you lost?”
“Looks that way.”
“Where are you trying to go?”
“The O’Neill house.”
The girl’s eyes widened, and she exchanged a glance with the guy.
He said, “Of course. I should have guessed. You’ve got the red hair.”
“Chestnut,” I replied a little too quickly.
Smiling, he studied it, not arguing, just looking. “And what color do you call your eyes?” His were a stormy blue with dark lashes — incredible eyes, and I figured he knew it. I also figured he knew the attention he was giving me would irk his girlfriend.
“Hazel, obviously.”
“Obviously.” He laughed.
“Can you give me directions?”
“It’s just next door,” he said. “At the top of our driveway, go left. The entrance to their property is halfway between here and the bridge, but it’s hard to find — overgrown, with no number or mailbox. When you do find it, go real slowly. Their driveway is mostly ruts and shells.”