How to Steal a Happy Ending

•two• Petrol prices are high.

How did we meet?

That's a harder question to answer than it would seem, because I've met James for the first time many times.

He was almost like the totem to every major event in my life. In middle school, when I was nothing but that ordinary kid in braces, James and his mother moved into town. Although, back then, she was the talk of the town instead of him.

Then in high school- when I rose to the dizzying heights of popularity by being some other guy's girlfriend- James was there right behind me, cementing his fame as a somewhat dubious panty-dropper, full of charm and surprisingly good pickup lines.

And of course when it all came crashing down in Junior year, who should be there waiting for me at the checkout but James Montgomery. When the guy sat me in Shelly's diner last summer and loudly declared that he was my spirit animal, he had no idea how right he truly was.

So how did we first meet? Well, maybe the best story to tell is the one with a wet kitchen floor and a car.

A wet kitchen floor with orange juice spilt on it, and a sunset yellow '65 Corvette, if we were to be specific.

Nate's brother, Danny, got the car for his 16th Birthday and wouldn't let anybody so much as touch the steering wheel. I don't know why he was so protective about it; it wasn't as if much else could happen to the car that hadn't already happened.

To me, it was a beat up piece of metal on wheels. To them, it was the most beautiful thing to ever hit the road.

If we were to get into the details, I'd say that I first met James in the summer before 9th grade, all because a well built teenage guy slipped in his kitchen and fell. This, and the fact that we had a Corvette that we may or may not have stolen.

I was sort of flustered, mostly awkward and, it being a lazy Sunday afternoon, probably wasn't looking my best. He, on the other hand, had recently bathed and was as smooth as ever. They say first impression is last impression, so maybe that's why he was always so unimpressed with me.

That might be true back then, but something like that would never happen now. I tried to reassure myself of this as I drove towards the first day of my last days at high school.

In the same vein, I pumped up the volume of my morning playlist, letting it blare through the speakers and drown all sensible thought with their repeating lyrics. The songs were total garbage, quality-wise. But that's not why I selected them. No, it was for their uncanny ability to make me feel like I was best thing since sliced bread.

As my car pulled into the parking lot of White Field High, their anthem of self-adoration was interrupted by my phone vibrating it's two-quick-one-long rhythm on the dash board.

"Hey, what's up?"

A familiar, watered down English accent received me at the other end, "Oh thank god you picked up. Listen, stop by my house on your way to school. My tire's punctured and I don't have a spare."

"Yeaah, that's not happening."

His voice switched to a suggestive tenor, "Come on, I promise it'll be fun."

"Oh? What kind of fun are we talking about here?"

"The roll-around-on-my-new-mattress kind."

"Well, that is my kind of fun."

"Then what are you waiting for darling? I don't bite. Well-" A light chuckle rang from the other line, "I might."

I bit back a smile and, playing along, asked "but what about my husband?"