Olivia paced the end of the driveway, careful not to twist an ankle where the pavement cracked and dropped off abruptly, a pothole Dad had never bothered to fix because it was on the opposite side as the mailbox. That was the last thing she needed, an injury on top of everything else.
But that would be just her luck, wouldn’t? Never had she wanted anything in her life as badly as she wanted her damn car to start so she could get to Seattle, to the rehearsal, to Margot.
Olivia shut her eyes.
“I figured out your problem.”
Olivia rushed over to the car, stopping behind Mr. Miller, close enough to hear him explain, but not so close as to crowd him. “I am all ears.”
He reached for the towel tucked inside the front pocket of his jeans and wiped his hands. “Your spark plugs aren’t just corroded, they’ve started to erode.” He pointed at the top of the engine. “See that green cast to the metal? You’ve got some severe oxidation going on, too. Your spark plugs are burned out. Probably causing a timing issue with the ignition. Have you noticed the car runs rough when you idle?”
“I—maybe? To be honest, I haven’t driven it much in the past few months. I walk most places. It sits in a parking garage most of the time.”
Mr. Miller grunted, acknowledging he’d heard her.
Olivia wet her lips. “So . . . corroded—sorry, eroded spark plugs . . . is that bad?”
Mr. Miller frowned. “Mm-hmm.”
“But you can fix it.”
She held her breath, crossing everything she could possibly cross. Fingers, toes, everything save for her eyes.
“I can.”
Her breath escaped her all at once, and with it, a laugh of relief as she bent over, bracing her hands on her knees. Oh, thank God.
“As soon as I can get a replacement.”
Her stomach fell away completely, and her heart stuttered, reminiscent of her stupid engine. “I’m guessing you don’t have any of those lying around in your garage, do you?”
His lips twisted.
Swallowing required effort. It took two tries before she could force words up past the lump in her throat. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it’s going to take a little while?”
Mr. Miller grimaced and dipped his chin. “I can call AutoZone, see if they have them in stock, but . . .”
It was a fifteen-minute drive from Dad’s to the other side of town, where the store was located—thirty minutes roundtrip. Accounting for the time it would take to actually pick the parts up and install them . . . she was looking at over an hour just to fix the car, easy.
She pressed her lips together and forced a smile. “It’s fine. Thanks for, uh, trying. I appreciate it.” The lump in her throat swelled, the backs of her eyes burning, because what was she supposed to do now?
“Sorry, Olivia,” Mr. Miller said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I wish it would’ve been an easy fix.”
So did she. She scrubbed a hand over her face and exhaled harshly. She couldn’t believe she was about to ask this, but . . . “You wouldn’t possibly be able to give me a ride into Seattle, would you? I’d be happy to pay for—”
Mr. Miller lifted a hand, cutting her off. “I would, gladly, no money necessary, if it weren’t for the fact that Mae and I are down to one car.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. It had drizzled overnight, and a dry patch of concrete the size of a car stood out against the dark, rain-soaked drive.
“Right.” She swallowed hard and pasted on a flimsy smile. “Thanks, anyway.”
Mr. Miller lowered the hood and bent down to gather his tools. “You need me to call someone? Triple A? Your dad?”
She shook her head. There was no need to interrupt Dad’s trip. It would take him longer than an hour to make it back. Pointless to bother him over something he could do nothing to fix.
Unless replacement spark plugs magically fell from the sky, there was nothing she or anyone could do to fix this. It was unfixable. Her phone was dead, her car was dead, and—
Margot was right.
If Olivia had just waited, she wouldn’t be in this mess. But she hadn’t listened, and now she was stuck an hour outside of town with no way to get back. Not only was she going to miss the rehearsal, a critical faux pas as the wedding planner, but what would Margot think? Olivia couldn’t call her, couldn’t let her know. God, she knew Margot’s old number by heart, but her new number? There’d been no reason to memorize it with it programmed in her contacts.
Just show up.