I pull up to Zoey’s trailer, actually a little nervous. I washed my sedan today, but I still give the interior a once-over to make sure there’s not a speck of dust or dog hair. I climb out and smooth my slacks at my hips, not wanting any creases.

Not tonight.

Not on my first date with Zoey.

Is it odd that we have spent every night since she got out of the hospital a week ago together, and I left her bed just this morning so that she could have the day to get ready for our big date?

Maybe. But this is a big deal.

The first date of many with the woman I love.

“Hey! Hey, you!” I hear from across the way. Thelma and Louise are sitting in their rickety folding chairs, same as they do every night, smoking and talking about God knows what.

“Yes, ladies?” I answer, taking measured steps their way. I dare them to say one harsh word about Zoey. I will skin them alive. Hell, I won’t have to . . . Zoey has been calling everyone in town on their shit since she got out of the hospital.

People have been apologizing left and right, telling her ‘we didn’t know it was hurting you’ and ‘why didn’t you say something sooner?’ It pissed me off, but Zoey is choosing to draw a line in the sand—the before and the now. And she’s giving everyone, herself included, a fresh start.

But only one, and then she’ll tell you right off.

I beamed like a love-drunk fool when she told Bubba that she’d sit anywhere she damn well pleased while we waited for our to-go order two nights ago at the beer barn, and he’d nodded his agreement before saying, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Why’re you all dressed up? You taking our Zoey Walker on the town?”

I search through the words for any ill-will and scan their eyes for any malice, but find none. “Yes, we’re going to dinner.”

Smoke billows from Thelma’s mouth as she scolds me. “Well, it’s about damn time. That girl needs someone to make sure she’s eating and taken care of. Poor child, always taking care of everyone else.”

The tsk sound she makes seems authentic, like she’s always worried about Zoey, but I haven’t forgotten our previous conversations, though Zoey would like to. Louise hums, nodding her agreement. “Yes, she is. Sweet girl, that Zoey. So caring and kind.”

Seriously? Did body-snatching aliens invade and I missed the news report? How have they gone from smack talking Zoey, thinking she was harvesting DBs’ nails as conditioner additives, to calling her ‘poor child’ and ‘sweet girl’?

Guess getting kidnapped has its benefits, I think wryly.