I know Zoey thinks she’s getting the better deal with me and that I’m somehow getting the raw deal with her. The reality is very different. She’s beautiful, exciting, brilliant, and willing to sacrifice herself for others. I’m just a nerd whose admittedly good looks don’t make up for the fact that I talk trivia and live in a world made of up statistics, not exactly what most folks consider exciting dinner conversation.

Neither of us is perfect, and neither of us is awful.

What we are is . . . perfectly matched.

“I don’t refute any of that. Well, maybe the intentional crash. That really was an accident.”

“Sure,” I tease. I seal our agreement to disagree with a quick kiss. “I know you’ve got to get to work. Me too. But I’ll call you later.”

She smiles and disappears inside. I guess it’s the safety lessons I’ve heard my whole life, the statistics about a home invasion happening once every twenty-six seconds, or more likely, it’s that same desire to wrap Zoey up in cotton candy and treat her gently, but I tell her through the door, “Lock up, Zo.” I hear the lock turn and only then can I leave.

Halfway to my car, I hear a voice call out, “Hey! Hey, you!”

I track the sound and see two older women sitting in folding camp chairs outside the trailers across the narrow dirt road that separates their plot from Zoey’s.

“Yes?”

“Come here.”

The woman on the left takes a puff of a cigarette, her eyes narrowed as she watches to see if I’ll obey. My mother raised me to respect my elders, and I suppose there’s a chance she needs help getting up, so I take measured steps across the road.

“Hello, ladies. What can I help you with today?” I flash my charming smile, ready to talk about the weather or their grandkids, or God forbid, their cats.

“What’re you doing with D.D.?” Cigarette Smoker demands.

I blink, “I’m sorry, who?” I look to the other woman, teasing, “Are you Dee Dee?”

She crinkles her wrinkled lips, “Nah. I’m Louise. This here’s Thelma. And she means D.D.G.” She points toward Zoey’s trailer with her whiskered chin.

Anger freezes my blood in my veins. “Zoey,” I correct, enunciating the word harshly. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I’m dating her.”

Twin hums of disappointment sound out of the women’s throats as they give each other a pointed look. Thelma, who seems to be the boss of these two, takes a deep inhale of her cigarette and, with the smoke coming out as she speaks, says, “You know what happens to everyone she spends time with, don’tcha? Damn shame is what it is.”