“Ve vill hahv to try hotta,” he says. “Zis may take some time.”

Alice says her mantra for the end of our sessions: “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Grandmother or the Universe seems willing to oblige me: On my way home, the clanking in the front of my car reaches new heights, and the gas pedal seems to stop working. I’m lucky to manage to get to the shoulder of the highway, but I’m down in a valley surrounded by scrubby hills and fairly light traffic. I pull my phone out to call my parents, and while I see that I have service, when I press Mom’s name I hear that same infuriating message I got when I called Megan the night of the party. We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service. Please hang up and dial again.

I get out of my car and slam the door, stress mounting so fast a headache starts to spin behind my skull. It’s eighty-five degrees out with ninety percent humidity. I flip open the hood, knowing this will do me exactly no good, then call my dad. “Come on, come on, come on.”

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is not in serv—” I hang up and run my hands through my hair, weighing my options.

I don’t want to get in a car with a stranger. Under no circumstances will I get into a car with a stranger, no way in hell after seeing that abduction movie.

I can walk up to the next exit, two miles off, or I can flag someone down and try to borrow a working phone. I turn back to the road and wave my arms at a truck coming my way.

The driver pulls off onto the gravelly shoulder right behind the Jeep, and my stomach drops to the ground as Beau opens his door and gets out.

The Universe has to be kidding me right now.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. It’s the same smile he gave me that night in the band room, all night on the football field, and I don’t understand why he thinks it’s okay to smile at me like that after ignoring my phone number for three weeks.

He shouldn’t be making my heart speed up. He shouldn’t be looking at me like he wants to kiss me, because if he’s wanted to, he would have called me.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I shout over to him. “I mean, I assume you still have a phone, right? I need to call my parents to come get me.”

He leaves the truck door open and comes over to me, looking me up and down before turning his eyes to the open hood. “You want me to take a look at it?”

“No thanks,” I say. “I just want to call my parents.”

“I can give you a ride,” he says. “I was on my way back to Union anyway.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just call them.”

The space between his eyebrows knits together, and he passes me his phone. I walk off a few yards and call my mom first.

“We’re sorry. The number—”

I try my dad, Jack, and Coco, and get the same thing. I pace along the shoulder, outwardly sighing and inwardly groaning as I try to come up with a plan that doesn’t involve Beau.

“Natalie, let me take you home.”

I look back. Beau’s leaning against the Jeep, arms crossed over his chest. He wears worn-out jeans and a white T-shirt, like a Calvin Klein model, which infuriates me. I toss him his phone and stalk back to his truck.

I climb in without a word, and he watches then follows, wordlessly starting the truck up again and pulling back into the lane. For a while we both remain silent, but not in the comfortable way we were the night of the party. “You should let me look at your car,” he says finally. “I might be stupid, but I know cars.”

“You’re not stupid,” I say begrudgingly.

“So just not your type,” he says. “You’re more into golden boys like Matt Kincaid.”

“I am not into Matt Kincaid,” I snap. “Not now, not ever again.” Beau looks over at me for a second, and I fight a stutter in my chest. His eyes drop down to the space between us before trailing back to the road. After a long silence, I gather my courage and say, “You didn’t have to ask for my number.”

“Oh, that’s real nice, Natalie,” he says. “Thanks for that. You know what? I have some advice for you too. Next time someone asks for your number and you don’t wanna give it to him, say so instead of giving him a fake one.”

“What? I didn’t give you a fake number,” I almost shout. “What kind of bullshit excuse is that?”

He slides his phone out of his pocket, messing with it while he drives, then holds it out to me. The screen says “Calling Natalie . . .”

“And?” I say.

“Go ahead,” he says, pushing the phone closer to me. “While we’re callin’ bullshit.”

I take the phone and hold it up to my ear just as the ringing stops. “We’re sorry. The—”

“You have to be kidding me,” I say, looking down at the screen. I double-check the contact info. “Beau, this is the right number. I don’t know what’s going on with my phone.”

He looks over at me again then back to the road, and says nothing.

“I promise,” I say. He glances over at me again, face grave. Per usual, I feel near to tears, maybe because I’m relieved Beau tried to call or maybe because I’m worried he won’t believe me. “Really, I promise.”

We stare at each other for a few seconds, and when he looks back at the road, he starts to smile. “So no QB1 for Natalie Cleary?”

“A quarterback is literally half of a halfback, Beau,” I say. “It’s simple math.”

“Simple for you, maybe,” he says. “You should probably know it took me five years to graduate from high school before you start overestimating me.”

“You should probably know I couldn’t possibly care less.”

A full, bright smile breaks across his face, and I look out the window, feeling my own grin spreading. We’re about five minutes from my house when I see something that makes my smile falter. “Can you pull over?” I ask.

He looks hesitantly over at me then to the parking lot on our right. “Sure,” he says, pulling off. As soon as he stops the car, I get out and walk toward the building on the far side.

“You okay?” he calls after me.

I turn back to face him. “It’s a daycare.”

“I can read,” he says. “That much, I got down.”