"I know."

For a while, after I started working at the Thailand division of Cunningham Cares International, I thought I was starting to figure it out, that I didn't need the luxury or trappings of my old life. But when my father died and it was all taken away from me, I realized I'd been lying to myself all along.

"You don't have to be ashamed of it, you know," Ward says.

"What?"

"Of the money. Or growing up in that house. Or any of it, really."

I look out the window. "It's not the money, exactly. It's..." How do I explain this? How do I articulate a lifetime's worth of confusion and guilt?

I wait for Ward to jump in. Or to redirect the question to something safer. But he doesn't.

"It's just..." My eyes drift up toward the sky. There are white, fluffy clouds above us, but the sky is darker up ahead. It'll probably rain later.

"It's just...?" Ward prompts.

I'm not sure where to begin. I let out a breath. "Why should I be allowed to mourn that life when most people will never be lucky enough to experience anything even close to it?"

Ward's silent for a moment. Even his fingers have stopped tapping.

"You're not mourning the money," he says. "You're mourning the life you knew. You're mourning your childhood."

It's encouraging to know that he thinks that of me. But that doesn't make him right.

"I miss the money, too," I say softly. "Not like... not like I miss my father. But enough for it to matter." I'm still looking out the window, trying to find that calm again. "I took it for granted. Even as I resented it. And when it was gone... It turns out it was a bigger part of me than I thought. I spent most of my life trying to run from it, but in the end, I wanted that life. I needed that life. The rest... The rest was just to make myself feel better."

Ward's silence is longer this time. When I glance over at him, I can tell he's thinking intently about what I've just said.

It's the most honest I've been with him-with anyone-about the feelings I've been dealing with since my father died. And now that those words are out there, I'm not sure I feel much better.

"I think you're wrong about one thing," he says finally. "I don't think you need that life. Even if you miss it."

I look at him.

"I mean, I never knew you when you had money," he says. "I only know you as you are now. But I don't think you need that life."

I don't know who he's talking about, because even I am self-aware enough to recognize that I have some serious issues. Maybe he's just trying to protect me again, but it doesn't make me feel like any less of a fraud.

"Everyone always thought I was the generous one," I say. "The girl who was willing to give up her extravagant lifestyle to help the needy. But it was all just a show. It wasn't about the people I was helping. It was about showing the world that I wasn't the spoiled, selfish little rich girl that they expected me to be, the girl that I knew I was, at the end of the day."

I lean my head back against the seat. When I started this conversation, I wasn't expecting this to turn into a confessional session. This is the last thing I want to be talking about right now.

Besides, I'm not supposed to be focusing so much on my problems anymore.

"Look, I'm dealing with it," I say. "I know I have a long way to go, but I'll figure it out."

"Oh, no," Ward says. "Don't think I'm going to let you just-"

There's a bang and suddenly the car swerves wildly to the left. Ward corrects course immediately, but it doesn't matter-the car is dangerously unbalanced. And it's making a strange thumping sound.

"s.h.i.t," he says. "I think we blew a tire."

The car thump thumps as Ward steers us over to the side of the highway. My heart is still racing. As soon as he's parked us on the shoulder, Ward reaches out and places a hand on my thigh.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod. "Just startled. That's all."

"I'm going to check it out," he tells me. "I'll be right back."

He's only outside a second. He takes one look at the back tire on his side of the car and curses.

"It's in shreds," he says, leaning in the driver's side window. "I'm going to have to change it."

"You have everything you need?"

"Never travel without it." He rubs the door frame affectionately. "Ol' Stella's done me proud, but she's not young. And I'm not an idiot." He starts to straighten, then leans back inside. "It's going to be a little while. Hang tight."

"I can help," I say. I don't know much about cars, but I don't want to sit around while he does all the work, either.

Ward answers my offer with a grin.

"Have you ever changed a tire before?" he asks.

"No. But I'm willing to learn." I lean toward him across the center console. "And I bet you're a very, very good teacher."

He laughs at that. But he throws a glance over his shoulder before he answers.

"We're lucky," he says. "This might have happened on a busier road." He looks at me again. "Be careful, though. The shoulder's always dangerous."

I smile and climb out of the car. The wind has picked up, and my hair flies in my face, but I tie it up again as I walk around to where Ward stands at the trunk. He pulls out a toolbox and hands it to me before reaching for the spare.

"Lesson one," he says. "Always be prepared for an emergency. Spare tire, jumper cable, toolbox, a couple of road flares-those will get you a long way."

I smile. He's s.e.xy when he goes all Mr. Handyman on me.

He leads me around to blown tire. He's right-it's shredded.

"Geez," I say.

"I know." He crouches next to the wheel and sighs as he picks at the tattered rubber remains. When he glances up, I see something in his eyes-but he looks away quickly.

"What?" I say.

"It's nothing. I just..." He tugs at the rubber. "As I said, we were lucky. If there'd been a car in the next lane, or if I'd pulled the wheel a little too far..." His eyes meet mine again. "You might not be standing here right now. You might be-"

"I'm okay," I say, bending down next to him. "We're both okay."

He reaches out and brushes a curl away from my face. His fingers linger on my cheek-the bruised one-as if making sure that I'm real, that I'm telling the truth. Only when he presses too hard and I wince a little does he draw his hand back.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking away. When he speaks again, his voice is rough. "I just don't know what I'd do if anything else happened to you."

Before I can respond, he grabs the toolbox out of my hand.

"This," he says, reaching inside, "is a jack. It's used to support the car while we change the tire."

I'm still trying to recover from the last thing he said. I can hardly keep up with the sudden subject change.

"I... I know what a jack is," I say.

He shrugs and smiles as if my heart isn't still beating a thousand times a minute. "Just making sure." He positions the jack beneath the car. "You don't want to lift the car off the ground. You just want to support its weight."

If he doesn't want to talk about how close we came to an accident, then I won't pressure him. He feels terrible enough about my swollen face. It's clear that he blames himself for this, too.

I'm content to just watch him work. To study the way his brow furrows slightly as he cranks the jack. To admire the way his muscles ripple beneath the skin on his bare arms. Something wet hits my skin, and when I look up I realize that the rain is moving in faster than I antic.i.p.ated. I hear the low rumble of thunder in the distance. We'll have to hurry if we don't want to get drenched.

But Ward seems to be on top of things.

"Next, we need the lug wrench," he says, grabbing one from the toolbox. His eyes are a little brighter now, a little clearer. He's doing what he does best-fixing things-and that seems to restore his mood. He moves with a new energy, and I feel the blood rising in my cheeks as I watch him.

"What are you staring at?" he asks as he removes the tire. His voice is thick with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Can't I admire the view?"

He shoots me a grin over his shoulder. "I guess I can't complain about that."

Just a few moments ago, I would have called the flat tire a near-disaster. Or at least a major inconvenience. But now that I see Ward working, now that I realize we're in capable hands, I find it, well... almost fun. This feels almost like a real adventure now, even if the rain is starting to pick up.

Ward wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. It leaves a streak of grease, and the look is far s.e.xier than it has any right to be. He shoots a glance up at the sky.

"I don't like the look of that," he says, almost to himself.

As if in answer, lightning flashes across the sky.

"You should get back in the car," he says. He looks over his shoulder at the highway. "This is getting dangerous."

The rain is getting heavier every second. Cars whizz by, kicking up spray with their tires. One pa.s.ses too close, and I leap back against Ol' Stella.

"Get in," Ward says as he throws everything back in the toolbox. He has to yell for me to hear him. "We'll finish later."

I grab the spare tire and help him get everything back in the trunk. Then I jump back inside the car.

We were only caught outside for a minute, but everything I'm wearing is soaked. Lightning flashes again, and the crash of thunder that follows makes the change rattle in the cup holders. Rain thunders against the roof of the car.

"Well, that f.u.c.ks things up a little," Ward says, pushing his wet hair back. The streak of grease is still there on his forehead.

It definitely throws a wrench in our grand plans for the day. I tilt my head and look out the window. The sky is dark in every direction I can see.

"Should we call a tow truck?" I ask. I hate to spend the money, but that's looking more and more like our only option.

"With what?" Ward asks.

"Oh. Right." His phone battery's been dead for two days now, and my cell is probably in police custody at this point.

"We'll wait for this to blow over," he says. "Or at least calm down a little. It won't take me long to get the spare on there. If it doesn't blow over soon, maybe I'll hike up to the nearest exit and see if I can call one of those roadside a.s.sistance vehicles. At least they've got loads of flashing lights so people will be able to see us while we're working." He reaches over and flicks on the emergency flashers.

He's right-those are pretty much our only options at this point. And judging by the current conditions, we're probably going to be stranded for a while. We might as well get comfortable.

I settle back in my seat, trying to relax. It's easier said than done. For some reason, I'm restless.

Ward is fidgeting as well. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, tapping a rhythm against the faded vinyl. At first I think he's just bored, but when I see his face, I can tell he's deep in thought. He senses me looking and turns his head. His fingers pause.

"We were interrupted," he says, "back there when the tire blew."

I was hoping he'd forgotten about that conversation, at least for now.

"Don't worry about it," I say.

"No, I think this is important." He releases the wheel and shifts to face me.

"Ward, I-"

"You're obviously still beating yourself up about your past, and for the life of me, I can't figure out why."

I shake my head. "It's..."

"Complicated, I know." His tone says what his words don't: It always is with you.

I look out at the rain. "I don't want to talk about this right now."

For a moment, he doesn't say anything, and all I can hear is the rain beating against the metal roof of the car. And then he reaches out and touches my thigh.

"A parent dying is... an awful, s.h.i.tty thing," he says. "No matter what the circ.u.mstances. You had it worse than most of us because you lost so much more than just your dad. You lost everything. I can't think of anyone who wouldn't have a hard time processing all the c.r.a.p you've had to deal with."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I'm okay. I promise."

"You see, I don't believe that."

"I have a lot to work through, I know," I admit to him. "But I'll figure it out."

"I think anyone who-"

"I don't need you to be a shrink," I snap.

I regret my tone immediately, even before Ward draws back.

"Look," he says, "I'm not trying to play shrink. I'm just trying to understand."