Sally: Autumn Storms (F&L Story #4)

Sally: Part 17

Part 17

Sally smirked as she started the engine of her Dodge truck almost an hour later.  

"I need to get cleaned up."

Despite the fact that she had to actually wait on him after she’d showered, fixed her hair, dabbled on a little make-up and changed into a pair of designer jeans, a light blue pheasant blouse, and some heeled boots, Wilson looked no different than the day she first met him. Faded – but clean – Wranglers, a deep brown, button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled back, his ever-present Stetson, and his cowboy boots. His hair was still damp from his shower, curling around his collar, and his jaw was freshly shaved. But otherwise, he looked just the same. So, what took him so long?

Men. She’d never understood them. It probably took him every second of that forty-five minutes to look like he’d thrown on the nearest, clean outfit, and she’d been scrambling around in her closet to find something that actually fit anymore. She really needed to lay off the fried foods. Her hips had bloomed since last autumn. But in her shower, she took the time to thoroughly shave her legs and scrub her body with a loofah until it shone. Then after she dried her hair, it billowed up in this fluffy cloud of a tangled mess around her head. She just sighed, re-wet it, slapped some mousse in it, and called it “fixed.” At her age, make-up was a joke. Some moisturizer, some lip gloss, and some mascara. There, dolled up.

All that took her exactly thirty minutes.

But she looked like she made an effort. Wilson spent three-quarters of an hour walking through a revolving door – going in sweaty and dusty and coming out clean and damp, but beyond that, completely unchanged.

Get a grip, Sally…it’s not a date, after all. She was hungry, he was hungry, they were going to the same restaurant to eat dinner, at the same table…nothing like a date at all. But the awkward silence in the cab of the truck felt exactly like a first date.

Maybe she should “jump him” in the truck. Sage would have a field day with that idea. To fill the obvious lull in conversation, Sally flipped on the radio. Willie Nelson belted out Big Booty. Sally loved this song. She turned up the volume and started to sing along. Wilson rotated his head to her. When she sang out, “…you can kiss Big Booty good-bye…” he turned to stare at the radio with a dazed look. Sally tilted over toward him and grinned.

“Interesting song,” he muttered when it finally finished.

“Don’t you like Willie?”

“I’m more of a southern rock fan,” he admitted. Sally nearly swerved off the road.

“Sacrilege! A cowboy who doesn’t like country music?”

“I didn’t say that. I just have my preferences.”

Instead of commenting further, she picked through some cd’s strapped to the backside of her visor and slid an Ozark Mountain Daredevils disk into the player. When If You Wanna Get to Heaven came on, she shot him a flippant look and asked, “Better?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared out his side window. “That wasn’t necessary.”

Damned if you do…damned if you don’t…

Sally jacked the volume up and screeched, “…if you wanna get to heaven…you gotta raise a little hell!!!...”

Wilson cringed and reached over to turn down the dial to a soft background noise. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”

Sally batted her eyelids at him and said in a sickly-sweet voice, “Wilson, are you implying that I can’t sing?”

He grunted and veered his gaze off to the darkening horizon, but a small smile played around in the corners of his lips. Sally giggled and turned to merge onto the interstate. “So, where do you want to eat?”