So I hit the gas and swerved right, narrowly missing the bumper of the car in front of me, squeezed between it and a fence, and hung a hard right out of the parking lot, nearly cutting off a Corvette, whose driver had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending me. The resulting squeal was no doubt heard a couple of blocks away.

I floored it. I wanted to put as much distance between me and that McDonald’s as quickly as I could. So intent was I on making a fast getaway that I had yet to notice how much the side of my face was smarting.

My heart was doing a fair bit of pounding, too. Once I’d put a few blocks between myself and that McDonald’s, I pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, swinging the car around so that I was facing the street, and turned off the ignition. I switched on the interior light and adjusted the mirror so I could get a look at the side of my face. It was already turning blue and puffing out.

I went inside and bought a small bag of ice, got back into the car and pressed the bag of cubes against the left side of my face. I wasn’t sure which hurt more, the punch, the ice, or my pride, but it was all I could do not to scream as I held the bag against the bruise.

I hoped Cam wasn’t the one Angie was thinking of spending her life with. This was not the best way to kick off a relationship with a future son-in-law.

Maybe, if I could keep the side of my face from swelling up too severely, Angie wouldn’t even notice it the next time she saw me, which now probably wouldn’t be until the next morning. I could go home, turn off the lights, and get into bed, an ice bag on my pillow. By morning, the swelling would be gone, although there was a good chance I might have a terminal case of freezer burn.

But if the bruise was still there, Angie would put it all together the moment she saw me. And there’d be so much explaining to do. Maybe it was better to come clean now, to wait up for her, to admit that I was an asshole, but that sometimes fathers worried about their daughters so much that they simply couldn’t avoid being assholes. We’re hardwired that way and—

“Fuck.” I was suddenly taken by the image of a black Chevy rumbling past the 7-Eleven, heading in the direction of the McDonald’s.

I hadn’t caught a good look at the driver, but the car was pretty unmistakable. Black, rusting out around the wheel wells, sitting low in the back.