Dear Emily by Julie Ann Levin Page B

wouldn't
start.
    People are dying in Africa.
    One in seven adults goes to sleep
hungry in the United States.
    Kids with cancer.
    She told herself these things like a
demented mantra as other pitiful thoughts popped into her
head.
    Why me? What did I do to deserve this?
Why does my life so fucking suck at this moment?
    Abused animals. More cancer.
War.
    Okay? See? Things aren't so bad. Other
people have it much, much worse. Try leaving your home when your
country is demolished in a civil war. Hurricane Katrina for crying
out loud!
    She tried the ignition again, but the
only sound she heard was the knock on the driver's side
window.
    “Jesus Christ!” Her leg jerked up and
pain flashed through her hamstring.
    “Are you okay?” Jack Harper asked,
opening the driver door.
    “No, I'm not okay. Who sneaks up on
people in a dark, parking lot?”
    He shrugged.
    She rubbed her leg. If she were a piece
of art, the title would read, Portrait of the Glare.
    “I'm sorry,” he said, shifting his
weight from one leg to the other. “You looked like you were having
car trouble.”
    “You were watching me?” She asked
because that's not weird at all.
    He nodded. “I make a habit of watching
women and sneaking up on them in dark, parking lots.”
    “No,” Amy said, resting her head on the
steering wheel. “Don't be funny and charming. I can't even begin to
deal with funny and charming right now.”
    “I'm trying to make this less
awkward.”
    “Jack, we both know there is nothing
either of us can do to make this less awkward. Except to walk
away.”
    This was the first conversation Jack
Harper and Amy Knight had ever had.
    His brow furrowed in dismay. “Can I see
if I can figure out what's wrong?”
    “With me?”
    “With the car,” he said.
    “Oh, right.”
    This is the point where Amy should have
been able to say something like, no, I'll call my boyfriend, or my
friend, or someone, anyone, but she was unskilled at making college
friends, and could multiply that exponentially on the boyfriend
front. So, yeah, Amy had no one to call to help. What is it they
say? Only you can help yourself?
    She unfastened the seat belt buckle and
slid out of her already loved (used) Honda Accord. Jack remained in
the cone shape created by the open car door, forcing her to squeeze
by him. She stretched her leg and tested the muscle. It didn't hurt
anymore. Call the amputation off, doctor.
    “Maybe it needs a jump?” she
said.
    “Possibly.” Jack listened to the car as
he turned the ignition. It wasn't even doing the whoooo whooo.
Nope, dead air.
    He found the lever to pop the hood with
ease and circled around the front of the car to investigate. Not to
be outdone and vehemently against being cast as the damsel in
distress, Amy located the flashlight function on her phone and
stood next to him as she illuminated the car's organs.
    She pretended to study the car while
stealing glances at him through her peripheral vision. Hmmm... Yes,
I see how that black thing attaches to that other black
thing.
    The body of an athlete. Muscles that
shifted under a crisp, cotton shirt. Tanned skin that glowed in the
yellow parking lot lights.
    “I think you're right,” he said,
breaking her focus.
    “Really?”
    He stared at her then--really looked at
her for the first time and she hated the butterflies she felt in
her stomach more than anything she'd ever hated. But it was quite
impossible to be unaffected by Jack Harper's good looks.
    “Let's jump the battery and see if that
works,” he said.
    Amy nodded and retrieved jumper cables
from the trunk. Jack took them from her hands, and his fingers
brushed against hers. She felt tingles spread from her hand through
her body.
    Oh, no, no, no. That did not just
happen. She was not moved by a simple touch from Jack Harper of all
people.
    She waited by her front bumper while he
jogged to a blue, Ford pickup a few rows down.
    It only occurred to her she could have
asked someone from the pub to help her with