I’d always loved gas stations. Like airports, gas stations offered that strange transitory mingling of humans, so much possibility, a feeling of precipice. And I’d met Heather at a gas station.

On the way to an interview years ago, I’d been preoccupied, hadn’t checked the fuel gage and ran out of gas. Only a mile away from the station, I hadn’t bothered calling a ride. I’d already messed up the interview. I’d never make it in time, so why waste money on a cab? It was summer, I was wearing a suit, and that one-mile walk under mid-day sun was sweatier than I’d expected. After I filled a plastic jug with gas, I bought a Slurpee, and sat at the picnic bench out front under shade. “Super Bass” by Nicki Minaj blared through the outdoor speakers.

Heather pulled up in a crappy car and got out to pump gas. She wore flip-flops and ugly sunglasses, her hair up in a messy bun. Since Trish had divorced me for that rich asshole and his Mercedes, nonmaterialistic women had become a serious turn-on.

I waved at her. She saw me, but ignored me completely. She was watching the gallons tick away as gas pumped.

I approached her, carrying my gasoline, my suit jacket, and my Slurpee. I stopped a dozen feet away. I wasn’t the type that appeared intimidating, but still, I had manners. “My car broke down a mile north. If you’re headed that way, would you give me a lift?”

She laughed. “Uh, no. That might be the craziest thing anyone’s ever asked me with a straight face.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. “And sitting at a gas station around here, drinking that, that cherry Slurpee, wearing your fancy clothes, you’re gonna get beat up.” She gave off an easy vibe. She fell in that sweet spot between kindness and didn’t give a shit. She couldn’t have been more different from Trish.

“No one’s gonna beat me up,” I said, deadpan, “not with this song playing.”

She laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But this song won’t last forever.” She’d glanced at my hair.

“Would you like to grab a coffee some time?”

She tilted her head and skewed her eyes. “I’m not a sex worker.”

“No, I know. I’m not a creep.”

She lifted her eyebrows and whistled. “Whatever you say.” Her voice, her eyes, her expression: she was funny and no-nonsense.

I hadn’t been looking for a relationship. Since Trish and I divorced, I was completely devoted to Sawyer. But, like a jolt of electricity, I was suddenly captivated. Infatuated. Ready to dive in.

I tossed the Slurpee in the garbage, set down my jug of gasoline, and grabbed the pen out of my shirt pocket. I propped my jacket against a gas pump, and wrote on it.