Chapter 73: Jeff's Romantic Journey, Continued
Jeff pulled the car to the shoulder about a block past the intersection and sat there with both hands still on the wheel, breathing with the careful deliberateness of someone who had recently experienced something and was waiting for their nervous system to catch up.
"Did I run that light?" he said.
Connie looked out the passenger window at the empty road behind them. "I genuinely don't know," she said. "It was one of those transitional moments."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's honest," Connie said. "Which is better."
Jeff closed his eyes briefly and said something quiet that had the rhythm of a prayer. Connie waited for him to finish, which she'd learned over the past hour was the correct approach — Jeff prayed the way other people took a breath, and interrupting it was like interrupting a breath.
"Okay," he said, when he was done.
"Okay," she agreed.
She was about to suggest they switch seats — she hadn't driven fast in three days and was starting to feel it — when blue and red lights appeared in the side mirror.
Not flashing urgently. Just present, rolling up slow and professional behind them.
Jeff's hands tightened on the wheel.
"It's fine," Connie said.
"I may have run a red light," Jeff said.
"It was transitional."
"Connie—"
The officer pulled alongside them, and Jeff rolled down his window with the careful movements of a man preparing to accept whatever consequence his choices had produced.
The officer who leaned down to the window was probably mid-twenties, with her hair pulled back under her cap and the alert, unhurried quality of someone who had been doing this job for exactly one day and was taking it seriously. She had the specific look of someone who had decided to be good at whatever she was doing and was currently in the early stages of that project.
"Evening," she said. "Everything okay? You pulled over kind of abruptly."
"Yes, ma'am," Jeff said, already reaching for his wallet. "I — we went through that intersection back there and I wasn't entirely certain about the light, and I pulled over because I wanted to — I wasn't sure if I should—" He stopped. Handed over his license. "I'm a pastor. At Deford Community Church. I apologize if I—"
"Pastor Woodard," the officer said, reading the license with the quick focus of someone trained to gather information efficiently. She looked up. "I've actually been to your church. My grandmother goes every week, she's been after me to come for years, I finally made it last Easter."
Jeff blinked. "Oh."
"You gave a good sermon," she said.
"Thank you," Jeff said, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders.
She handed the license back. "The light was yellow when you went through. Yellow's not a violation." She glanced past Jeff at Connie, who was sitting in the passenger seat with the expression of someone watching a nature documentary and finding it more interesting than expected. "You're fine. Just — maybe don't pull over in the middle of the road next time. Pull into a lot if you need to stop."
"Understood," Jeff said. "I will. Thank you, Officer—"
"Penhall," she said. "Julie Penhall."
"Thank you, Officer Penhall."
She straightened up and started to move back toward her motorcycle, which was parked about twenty yards back on the shoulder — and which, Connie noticed, was sitting at a slightly wrong angle. The front end low. The tire flat.
"Officer Penhall," Connie called, leaning across Jeff to the window.
Julie turned.
"Your front tire," Connie said.
Julie looked back at the motorcycle. Looked at the tire. Made the specific expression of someone who had noticed this forty minutes ago and had been managing their feelings about it since.
"First week," she said, with the rueful calm of someone who had decided to find things funny rather than catastrophic. "My partner's twenty minutes out. It's fine." She raised a hand in a small wave. "Have a good night."
She walked back toward the motorcycle.
Jeff watched her go.
He watched her for approximately five seconds longer than necessary.
Connie watched Jeff.
"Start the car," she said.
Jeff started the car. He looked in the mirror at Julie Penhall crouching next to her motorcycle with a flashlight, examining the tire with the focused competence of someone who intended to handle things themselves.
He drove forward about forty feet.
He stopped.
Connie waited.
"She's by herself," Jeff said. "It's almost ten o'clock. She's on the side of the road with a flat."
"Yes," Connie said.
"Her partner is twenty minutes out."
"Also yes."
"That's—" Jeff's hands moved on the wheel. "That's not a great situation to be in alone."
"No," Connie agreed. "It's not."
Jeff sat there for another moment.
Then he put the car in reverse.
He pulled back alongside the motorcycle and got out before Connie could say anything, which she thought showed some development from the man who had required three minutes of deliberation to go five miles over the speed limit.
She watched through the windshield as Jeff walked back to Julie Penhall, who looked up from the tire with the expression of someone who had said she was fine and was now being offered help anyway and was reassessing her position on the subject.
She couldn't hear what they were saying. She didn't need to.
Jeff crouched down next to the motorcycle, looked at the tire, and said something that made Julie nod. He pulled out his phone, consulted something, said something else. Julie responded. Jeff stood back up and said something that made her laugh — not a polite laugh, an actual one — and Julie shook her head in a way that was not a no.
Connie leaned back in the passenger seat and looked at the Texas sky through the windshield.
Well, she thought. Look at that.
A few minutes passed. Jeff came back to the car, leaned in through the open window with the specific brightness of a man who had made a decision and was pleased about it.
"I'm going to wait with her until her partner gets here," he said. "Would you mind—"
"Taking the car home," Connie said. "Obviously."
"I told her I could call her a tow if her partner doesn't make it," Jeff said. "She says she's fine, she doesn't need one, but I thought—"
"Jeff," Connie said.
He stopped.
"Go back over there," she said.
He went.
Connie slid into the driver's seat, adjusted the mirrors, and started the car. Through the window, she could see Jeff standing next to Julie Penhall's motorcycle, his hands in his pockets, saying something. Julie was looking at him with the alert, slightly uncertain expression of someone who had come out to a quiet road for a solo problem and had ended up in a conversation they hadn't planned on and weren't sure yet how they felt about.
Connie put the car in drive.
She pulled out onto the road and gave one short tap of the horn as she passed, which she did not feel required explanation.
She was home and inside for about ten minutes when her phone buzzed.
A text from Jeff: Could you let Mary know I won't be back tonight? I'll explain tomorrow. Thank you for the drive, Connie. I needed it.
Connie looked at the text for a moment.
Then she typed back: Don't explain anything to Mary. Tell her you stayed with a friend. Details are overrated.
She put the phone face-down on the side table and picked up her Lone Star.
She was halfway through it and three chapters into her book when she heard the front door.
"Connie?"
Mike was in the doorway, looking at her with the focused, quiet attention he brought to situations where something felt off and he was determining whether to say so.
"You're back early," he said.
"Change of plans," she said.
He looked at her for a moment — the specific look he used when he was reading a room and had formed a conclusion he was deciding whether to share.
"Jeff okay?" he said.
"Jeff," Connie said, "is having a better night than he started with."
Mike absorbed this.
"Good," he said. He seemed satisfied with the non-answer, which meant he'd understood it correctly.
"How did the tutoring go?" she said.
"Georgie got four out of seven," Mike said. "With two sessions left."
"Is that enough?"
"I don't know," Mike said honestly. "He's trying. That counts for something."
He said good night and went back to his room.
Connie sat with her book and her beer and the warm, particular satisfaction of a woman who had gone out to do one thing and had accidentally done two.
Through the window, the Texas night was exactly itself — flat and dark and full of stars, entirely indifferent to what happened under it and somehow comforting for that reason.
She finished her chapter.
She finished her beer.
She went to bed.
(End of Chapter 73)
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