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Her phone rang a third time. The blue van stopped at a red light.
One block away.
She turned around, walking into the diner, the sounds muffled
but still noticeable—a symphony of plates clanking and people
talking; directly ahead was the hostess stand, where a man was
asking for a table. She felt sick to her stomach. She cupped the
phone and faced the window, praying that he couldn’t hear the
commotion behind her. Her legs went wobbly as she pressed the
button and answered.
“What took you so long to answer?” he demanded.
“I was in the shower,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“I’m about ten minutes out,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
He hesitated. “You sound kind of funny,” he said. “Is something
wrong with the phone?”
Up the street, the signal light turned green. The Super Shuttle
van’s turn signal indicated that it was pulling over. She prayed
that it would wait. Behind her, people in the diner had gone
surprisingly quiet.
“I’m not sure. But you sound fine,” she said. “It’s probably bad
service where you are. How’s the drive?”
“Not too bad once I got out of the city. But it’s still icy in places.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Be careful.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
“I know,” she said. The van was pulling over to the curb, the
driver craning his neck, looking for her. “I hate to do this, but can
you call me in a few minutes? I still have conditioner in my hair
and I want to rinse it out.”