If I was the kind of girl who believed in signs from the Universe, I'd be more than a little concerned that the road trip to my Mom's wasn't launching off to the most serendipitous start. But I refused to believe it was nothing short of coincidence when after about two hours of mindless driving,  all of the lights on my dashboard lit up. If that wasn't alarming enough,  my steering wheel then became so stiff beneath my grip that I couldn't even rotate it,  and then it just locked up altogether. By some streak of luck, I managed to get my car over to the breakdown lane before it stalled completely to a stop. When I tried turning the engine over again,  that's when I noticed the swirls of steam clouding around the hood.

Frantically rummaging through the paperwork in my glove compartment, I finally found the number for roadside assistance. I saw my rearview reflecting the dancing orange lights as a tow-truck parked ahead of me not even thirty minutes later, right around the time I was about to surrender all pretenses of independently adulting, and just give up and call my Dad for help. I'd been less than fifteen minutes away from my Mom's according to my iPhone, but apparently Coincidence had other plans in store.

"There's something to be said about damsels in distress," the driver said, slinging a coy grin bursting with so much confidence, I had no doubt believing the cheesy line worked more often than not. It certainly didn't hurt that his voice was deep—making his words lilt with some kind of rumbling rhapsody—as if the texture of velvet had a parallel sound. With the quiet snap of his door shutting behind him, he started towards me. From my position in the breakdown lane, we seemed to be around the same age, and even from a distance, I could tell he was cute. Like, disarmingly cute. When the space between us closed, my suspicions were confirmed.  It could also be the dimples. Those are what I noticed next.

"I'm not sure what's wrong," I told him, ignoring his comment about damsels and cursing myself for throwing my oldest Radiohead tank top on when I got dressed this morning. Not because I cared about his opinion on my appearance, but for other ambiguous reasons I was having a hard time conjuring in the moment. "Everything seemed to be working mechanically, and then it just kind of locked up."

Kind of like me whenever I try to flirt.

"The keys?" he asked once he was towering over me—he was like NBA tall, and it was a little bit jarring at first. Now that proximity was more in my favor, our gazes locked, and that's when I noticed his eyes. They rivaled the emerald shade of the forest framing us on either side of Route 3: a canopy of leaves painted deeply in all of summer's bloom. It was a dazzling contrast to his warm complexion, which I definitely didn't notice next.

"They're in the ignition."

Another subtle smirk exposed one of those dimples again. He broke eye contact to wipe some sweat from his forehead on a rag he pulled from his faded blue jeans, exposing a forearm covered in tattoos—though I couldn't make any of them out in a cursory glance. Speaking of said arms, his seemed pretty built. And muscular. Wait—why was I gaping at his arms again?

"Safe place to keep them. It's better to have loved and lost doesn't usually apply to car keys."

I forced myself to smile as I stifled a sigh. This was just peachy—and not in the charming emoji kind of way.

As if spending the summer with my Mom wasn't enough to make me want to go running in the opposite direction, now I had to consider that my car broke down, leaving me without an easy escape route should things turn sour early on. Which I'm pretty sure they did, less than an hour ago when my car's engine stalled completely.

I took a brief second to remind myself that this wasn't the Universe's cruel way of foreshadowing of what's still yet to come—that cars break down routinely—as the tow-truck driver hopped into my driver's seat, finding the lever and popping open the hood of my Camry. Poor Jaws, I relented. I'd only had him for nine months.

After the smoking died down, my roadside savior poked around underneath the hood, pulling out a long, metal stick before meeting me once more on the side of the road.  When he was close enough to catch a whiff—which admittedly, sounded creepy even in my own head—I detected he smelled like something woodsy, but sweet. Almost like warm vanilla sugar, but much more faint.

"Have you noticed anything unusual about your car's performance over the past couple of weeks?

 "No. Not really."

"Any weird smells or anything?"

I  shook my head to indicate no, and he asked: "Any loud, clicking noises?"

"Not that I recall."

His green eyes were laced with skepticism, and I was starting to get annoyed."There were no lights lit up on the dash? Whatsoever?"

I didn't even try to camouflage my eye roll this time. "Only the ones that are usually on."

He just looked at me curiously for a second: "Which lights are usually on?"

My level of annoyance escalated to full-blown. He may be cute, but there was something patronizing  about his tone. I wasn't the kind of girl who flirted, and I most certainly wasn't the kind of girl who knew how to exchange in this kind of banter.

"I get the whole saving the damsel in distress thing, but I'm a girl—not Princess Peach. And you know what? That doesn't mean I'm automatically clueless about cars. I've been driving it for months, and it's been fine. The only light that's ever come on is the little genie lamp light, but that's been flickering for months now and-"

I stopped abruptly mid-sentence because Mr. Tow-Truck burst out into sudden fits of laughter. Hysterical laughter: he was actually keeled over, slapping his knees and everything like some kind of cartoon caricature of himself. I could literally feel the aggravation for today's events bringing my blood to a simmer.

"That's a first," he said, straightening his posture as his chuckles petered out. "That's truly original." He wiped the stick he'd been holding with the rag, and shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. I heard him mutter "genie lamp light" under his breath, and his shoulders—which were very, very broad BTW—flourished with laughter once more.

"Let me show you something, darling," He pointed to the rogue light on the dashboard in question. I ignored the shift in my stomach when he called me darling, attributing it to the McGriddle I consumed earlier with little to no grace. Actually, maybe he'd just said darjeeling? I think I remember watching The Darjeeling Limited  with my Dad once in the very distant past. If Pregnancy Brain was a thing, then Car Breakdown Brain also seemed pretty legitimate because I was clearly out of it and hearing things wrong.

"That genie lamp light means your oil is low. And according to this dipstick," he said, raising it as if he wasn't already waving it precariously close to my face, "you've probably been driving with no oil for miles now, which inevitably led to all of this smoke. How long would you say the light's been coming on and off?"

I was the biggest dipstick in the world. Definitely on the Cape.

Instead of answering, I just tapped into my selective hearing, pretending not to register his question as I tried my best to look engrossed by fascinating clickbait on my phone. OK, so technically speaking, I knew genie lamp light wasn't the actual term for that gauge. Of course I did. But if we were playing a game of Charades, I feel like everyone would know exactly what I was talking about. 

I think.

Think before you speak, Thea. Was it possible to actually die from embarrassment? Because it didn't seem like the most impracticable way to go.

"This doesn't look so good," he said, stating the obvious. No doubt if I were to steal a glimpse at his license, his name would be Sherlock Holmes. "If I'm making an educated guess, I'd say that all signs point to the engine being toasted."

"Toasted," I repeated. "As in the engine overheated?"

"If only," he said earnestly, putting the dipstick back in its slot before closing the hood. Walking to the bed of his truck, he attached a metal hook to the front end of my car. "Looks like your engine seized completely. It's Dunzo. Kaput."

I said a silent prayer for Jaws' future health as he was lifted to the bed of the truck and I started towards Sherlock's passenger side. 

"Where are you heading?"

Glancing at my hand where I'd scribbled my Mom's address earlier with a ballpoint pen, I repeated back her house number on Crescent Circle, hoping to dear Dog that it was close by. 

"Not too far from here. There's actually a garage right down the street from Crescent, good prices too. My buddy Abbot works there, I can have him take a look around and confirm it's the engine. He's the real grease monkey, I just moonlight as one a couple days a week."

Was this the normal standard for road-side assistance? Before I gave my response too much thought, I quickly agreed with his proposed  plan of action—if only to buy me time and certainty before the inevitable phone call I'd be making to my Dad. I'd prolong the whole "I'm Not Mad, Just Disappointed" lecture for as long as possible. The passenger side door was showily opened for me in a loose resemblance of chivalry, and I gathered my bags and hopped inside his truck. Moments later—and after he plugged my Mom's address into his GPS on the dashboard—Sherlock started his own, un-toasted engine.

"You know, I was beginning to think you were too good to be true, but that genie light lamp comment has to be the universe's way of leveling the playing field. I mean, you can't be as beautiful as you are, reference Mario Kart, and  have the most common sense in the world. Just wouldn't be fair."

Coughing away a groan I muffled to silence, I pretended he didn't just mention the universe as I tried to sedate the bundle of nerves buzzing inside me with panic. What was I going to do without a car?

Unrelated: Why did my heart skip a beat when a  stranger threw a gratuitous adjective my way? Could you experience Stockholm's-like symptoms in less than ten minutes?

"I'm only teasing," he said lightly, buckling his seat belt and cranking the cool air with a flick of his wrist.

Confidence can be an appealing trait, sure,  and most of the time confidence was attractive within itself.  Cockiness never was though. And this guy seemed cocky, though I'd never tell him using that adjective specifically because I could already hear the obligatory sexual innuendos he'd come up with—like they were written in a thought bubble above his pretty little head. First impression? His self-assurance flirted along the line of arrogance. I hoped he wouldn't be the talkative type: Small talk was always awkward, and we still had time to kill until we'd arrive at my Mom's. As we merged back on to the highway, my hopes were instantly crushed.

"You're not from around here, are you?" He asked me as I fished around, looking for the other half of the seat-belt.

"Nope," I answered, hoping he'd pick up on the hint that one worded responses typically imply.

"Here." He handed me the missing half of the belt I was having a hard time locating because it was hidden under an abundance of empty iced-coffee cups and old scratch tickets. "You'll have to excuse me," he said, gesturing towards the mess. "But I'm trying my best to kick the bad habit."

"Scratch tickets can get expensive," I added, not sure if it was those or his apparent lack of fluency with the convenient contraption collectively known as The Garbage Can.

A small chuckle escaped him. "I was referring to the iced-coffee." A half-finished cup was sweating beads of condensation in his cup holder—even with the AC cranked. "It's like crack. I consistently drink anywhere from—I don't know—three to four a day. I'm surprised I can still fall asleep at night."

I thought of my own insomnia, and what I'd give for the privilege of a good night's rest. "You must win a lot?"

"Know the funny thing about it?" He flashed his turn signal as we exited the highway, "I've never had a winning ticket. Not once. And by that I mean I've never even earned the two dollars or whatever I spent on them back." He laughed again, as if he was in on one of his own inside jokes. "I'm batting zero for two, but still stepping up to home plate."

"So why do you keep buying them?" I found myself asking, adding together the math of all the ones in plain sight. "Glutton for punishment?"

Sherlock's truck slowed to a stop as we came to an intersection that could only be the center of town: Quaint shops under rainbows of awnings lined the street, and a white church sitting next to a colonial styled building announced it was noon in the form of church bells. Beyond the storefront, I could see the blue ribbon of ocean meeting the shoreline accompanied by a boardwalk, and almost felt as if I had been here before. Like that feeling of Deja Vu you get after stumbling across a forgotten picture. And the one I was looking at was trying really hard to be a picturesque post-card.

"I guess that's the cynical way of looking of it," he answered, cruising through a yellow light just a few shades shy of becoming red. "I prefer to think that chance has it that one of these days probability will be in my favor. After investing so much money in the damn things, it's only right the Universe sends the good vibes back." He directed his eyes in my direction as our gazes locked. "Like good karma" he added, draining his iced-coffee in one last sip before adding it to the escalating mountain of plastic. "If you believe in that kind of stuff."

Karma: The universal rationalization that right and wrong are two equal weights balancing on a fulcrum of justice. I wasn't about to get into my thoughts on karma—and what was surely coming my way—so I remained silent.

Clearly that was a frequent lifestyle choice of mine.

"So where'd you say you're from again?" He hadn't skipped a beat during his short silence. I certainly hadn't told him I was from Townshill in fear he'd be able to draw together it's counterparts: All the news coverage we'd received over the past several months only ever led to the expected questions from those who were still curious about what happened. And people were always curious.

"Right outside of Boston." I said without delay. Picking up one of the trashed coffee-cups, I circumvented: "So what's the special ingredient?" I was a master of diplomatically changing subjects. "What makes it addictive as "crack"?

"Well I wouldn't necessarily call it crack. Too many negative associations."

Actually, he specifically had. Verbatim. "Your words, not mine." I clarified, but grateful that the subject had successfully changed.

"Were they?" he asked rhetorically as we yielded at another intersection, preventing him from seeing my eyes rolling along like tumbleweed. As we slowed to a stop he took the opportunity to turn in my direction and I got another trace of that faintly sweet scent; the red light was turning to green slowly, like a an old pocket watch in need of being wound.

"Two. Words." Sherlock said, pausing dramatically between each one, his eyes flashing greenly at me. When he realized I'd easily live with the curiosity of never knowing which two words he was emphasizing, he finally said "Red" and "Velvet"—divided into two separate sentences spoken with equal grandeur. The car behind us beeped in impatience because Sherlock was still staring at me when the red light we'd been stopped at bled out, turning the same color as his eyes.

"Like the cake?" I asked. Sounded way too sweet. Sure flavors can be fun, but when I take a sip of coffee, I still want it to taste mostly like coffee. Let them eat cake is a whole expression for valid reasons.

"Better, 'cause not only does it have the matchless flavor of cake, but the added benefits of coffee." Returning his attention back to the road, we resumed driving through the light.

Everything about Samoset looked, smelled, and felt like your stereotypical Cape Cod town—even just in passing. The air was thick with salt, the boardwalk packed with families traveling in packs with bathing suits straps peeking through their gauzy attire. Touristy shops with colorful boogie boards on display and signs for beach parking and restaurants decorated the length of the road we were on. As we merged into a rotary, I saw two guys with shaggy hair put surfboards into the bed of a truck parked in front of a tiki-styled bar with a sign adorned with Christmas tree lights promising  "Live Music Every Night."

"The tell-tale sign." I was beginning to wonder if speaking in short and ambiguous statements was Sherlock's signature thing. I just looked in his direction, so he gestured to the surfers. "After Memorial Day, that's when the Summer People come in. But you really know it's summer when the bros with shaggy hair invade The Sandbar claiming their presence for the next three months by way of plucking guitars and singing out-of-key Jack Johnson songs at open mic."

A hesitant smile contoured my lips. "Do they ever have any good bands?"

"They did a while back," he frowned, "But the owners had some financial issues and started closing the place during the off-season. Which in Samoset translates to seven months out of the year. So the musicians who were attracted to the venue transitionally stopped booking, and the place unintentionally got a reputation of being a shoddy karaoke bar at best."

"That's too bad," I said with all of the sincerity that statement usually lacks. There's something special about seeing live music—especially when it's decent —that can't be compared to anything else. I could feel Sherlock's eyes on me, studying me, and I silently hoped one of the next streets we'd come across would be my Mom's. I didn't like the way a sliver of his attention struck my cheeks like a match in way that rivaled gasoline and a flame.

"You know what? I was just thinking the same thing. I can tell we have a ton in common. We should probably go on a date. Or keep it more chill and get married or something."

I ignored him as best as I could by watching a paddle boarder glide on the single side of the street skirted by sea.

"I only have your best interests at heart," he continued, and although I was looking out at the vast expanse of the ocean, I could still somehow feel him grinning before he continued,"But the great thing about marriage is that it doesn't have to consensual."

I rolled my eyes, but felt a small grin form in despite of myself over the silliness of his statement. It was refreshing to know he wasn't actually seriously flirting with me.

"Do you only drop proposals on girls who are trapped in your car with you? Completely at your mercy?"

He put an  arm over his heart dramatically, "I'm hurt." The huge grin paired with the amusement in his voice indicated that was anything but the case. "While I admit that a dame in discomfort has a certain appeal, I resent that you  think I'd resort to such manipulative tactics."

I arched an eyebrow. "A dame in discomfort? I think you just set back Women's Rights several years with that expression."

At this, he just laughed out loud. Which made me immediately doubt if it was an original perfectly timed thought of mine, or a retweet of a joke I regurgitated after reading it once on the internet. There was something about his laugh that was transmissible. Like an infectious disease, I scolded myself. Stay away, Thea.

"Well, you seem like a smart-enough girl, car gauge logic aside. I honestly thought you'd just appreciate the alliteration." He slowed down and took a left, and we were finally arriving at Crescent Circle.

"Synchronicity," he stated. Shortly. Ambiguously.

When I realized he was nodding to the street sign, I said: "Or maybe it's just a street name." Glancing back at the address I'd hastily written on my hand this morning,  I confirmed it was my Mom's. At least this impromptu and awkward road trip would be coming to a screeching halt soon enough.

"Maybe. But a crescent is just a circle with a bigger part of it missing."

I fastened my duffel bag around my shoulder, and set everything else on my lap, ready to get out of the car—stat. "Well if it's a symbol you're searching for, that one's kind of ominous."

"How so?"

"Because a huge piece of the circle is missing—completely gone."

He shrugged, stepping on the brake as we neared a rocky driveway and a British voice from his dashboard declared we'd arrived at our destination. "Maybe so. But consider the moon: It's just a matter of time until a waxing crescent becomes full. So yeah, where some could see something that's missing or broken, you could also see something that's just beginning to grow."

"Aren't you the eternal optimist," I muttered with what I hoped was visible disdain. Optimists seemed pretty serial-killery to me, like decaf coffee drinkers. I have no interest in viewing the glass as half-empty or full, so long as it's not rippling with water. I mean, we've all seen Jurassic Park.

I opened my door and exited his vehicle like it was a windowless van full of candy.

"It's better than the alternative," he said simply, slipping me an unapologetic smile. "Do you need any helps with your bags?"

I gave him what I hoped was a gracious look. "Thanks, but I'll manage." And with that, I shut his door and started the battle march up the driveway, taking in the glistening water crashing against the shore of the very backyard I'd be staying in.

"Hey," I heard him call after me. Reluctantly, I spun around as he met me halfway across the driveway in a seemingly single step. Before I had the chance to wonder what he might possibly need, he took my hand, throwing me completely unprepared for what happened next.

"I don't have a business card on me," he said, securing a ball-point pen from his  flannel shirt pocket, gently writing a number on my open hand in blue ink, right above where I wrote my Mom's address earlier. "This is the number to the shop where I'll tow the car—should you need anything else. It's open until seven."

"Oh," I said, thrown off by the unexpected warmth of his hand holding mine. "Um, thanks."

"I never got your name, but don't tell me. I like my women to have that aura of mystery. Plus, I'll be seeing you sooner or later for our coffee date."

"We're not getting coffee."

He just smirked back at me again with that maddening air of confidence. "You won't be disappointed."

"We're not getting coffee,' I repeated to his backside, which admittedly could be considered a therapeutic sight for sore eyes. OK, Thea's Inner Monologue: Get it together (and stop speaking in Third Person). I'm pretty sure your blatant objectification of this unsuspecting man's backside just reversed Women's Rights' the several years he set them back with his dame/discomfort comment.

He spun around, that grin punctuated by those cute dimples only appearing to chase his smile a fraction of the time. "See you around, New Girl."

And before I could think about holding my tongue, "See you around, Sherlock," came out of my stupid mouth.

He just looked at me for a second, stirring an unfamiliar coiling in my chest, because that look that was animating his face? It was curiosity at first, but his pension for mysteries stopped him from asking me what I could've meant by uttering that nickname with no enthusiasm, and the slow-burning smile that swept across his entire face in response to that? Well, it was absolutely breathtaking.

With a heavy feeling knotted somewhere inside of me, I turned around without a second glance and tried to convince myself that this—staying at my Mom's—was only temporary. I could always go home—though I wasn't so sure I knew what home meant anymore. But like my Dad had said, it was only a car ride away. Well, given I actually had a working car in the first place.

I walked towards the side of the house, where I could see porch steps and a screen door, and took a moment to take in the view of the backyard: Across the sea-grass, there was a flight of wooden stairs leading to a private beach. The sound of the waves and open water beat away like an actual pulse. The sun was hanging lustrously over the sapphire water, and there was not a cloud in sight. It was truly a perfect June day.

When I turned around, Mom was standing on the porch steps; I hadn't even heard the door open and subsequently close. She was dressed in a flowy maxi dress, her hair in a loose braid, and I met the smell of gardenia before her embrace as she greeted me with a warm smile and took one of my bags.

"I'm so glad you're here," she said, nodding for me to follow her in the house. She didn't seem to notice that her Wrangler was the only car parked in the driveway, that I was still frazzled from Jaws breaking down. But that was just me and my Mom's relationship: It was like one of those sad songs that disguised itself as a happy one. At first when you listen to it, the chords and the melody are uplifting and in harmony. But once you actually come to grips with the lyrics, you realize the words are heartbreaking and exposing and ultimately sadder than the melody led you to believe.

Suddenly—and overwhelmingly so —exhaustion took control of my body. Whether it was from the scorching heat or my lack of sleep, I wasn't too sure. So albeit tiredly, I trailed my mother and took my first baby steps inside, and as followed, into my new life—temporarily or not as it may be—with just one haunting suspicion.

It was going to be a long, hot summer, indeed.