New job. New apartment. Old town. Old regrets. Same Carrie.

Or am I?

The drive into town as I pass the old sign declaring that I'm entering the town of Yates makes me shiver. My thin cotton v—neck is suddenly not enough to keep me from feeling cold dread. You'd think three years would be long enough to come back without feeling like I have my tail between my legs, but apparently not.

The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach makes me wonder if I'm doing the right thing. A little late for that. After all, I've quit my old job at the bank, pulled out of my room with my roommates in the ratty old house we shared outside of Oklahoma City, and come back to my hometown, ready to finish what I'd started years ago.

If this isn't the right thing to do, I have undone my entire life for nothing.

It's one of those nights where the sky is so clear and the clouds arrange themselves so perfectly around the moon that you'd think they were trying to get its autograph. Like something out of a movie poster, a little too perfect. The kind of night that deceives you into thinking maybe—just maybe—you can get a fresh start in life.

The lightest sprinkle of rain begins to dot my windshield. It's more than a mist but not quite a storm. I'm humming along to a fabulous song and it's all good.

Life is getting better.

And then my bald tire blows out. Rear passenger tire. Yanking the jerking car to the right, my hands know what to do because this is the third tire to go on me in seven months. Fixing an already—patched tire is my only option. The twenty—five dollar repair was cheaper than the eighty dollar used tire. A new tire might as well have been lined with gold bricks from the quote the mechanic gave me.

My long hair comes loose from the scrunchie as the car jolts to the shoulder of the road, riding the rim. A strand of hair catches as my hand struggles to grip the steering wheel. If I damage the tire rim I'll be in for a repair job that costs more than my piece—of—junk car is worth.

A loud crack, like the sky snapping in two, makes me jump. My forehead bangs the visor. A huge flash of light blinds me. And then that lovely, dewey drizzle turns into a raging thunderstorm in seconds.

Great. Just great.

Fumbling in my purse, I find my phone.

No bars. No service.

"Oh, geez," I mutter, tossing the phone on the cracked vinyl seat and running my hands along my bare arms. The night chill starts to creep in and I wonder how far from town I am. Cheap flip phones with ten cent per minute pre—paid fees don't exactly get the best coverage. At least it can turn into a flashlight when I go into desperation mode.

When? I am in it already.

Blowing a puff of air in a sigh that echoes for miles, I hunch over the steering wheel and think out my options. I can't call the only friend I have in town. Amy would come and help me, but no signal means no help.

The rain sounds like bullets falling on the hood of my dented Civic. The old car is kept together by my own determination and rust spots that make it look like something growing in a petri dish from a high school biology class. I close my eyes and will myself to think.

Spare tire? Yep. Bald, like the one that just shredded, but it is good enough to get me to my new place. If I can get there, I can set up my clothes, my coffee maker and my ancient laptop, all of which are currently crammed in my car.

On top of my spare tire.

Mumbling a curse my late mother would have disapproved of, I open the car door. It responds with a loud, rusty groan. I make a similar sound out of frustration.

I get to work.

In seconds I'm soaked through.

I am my own wet t—shirt contest.

Just as I open the trunk and start figuring out where to put my things on the wet ground, blue and red lights flash behind me.

No. Just no. My heart speeds up and starts slamming against my ribs. My fingers go numb from cold and fear. You would think I would be relieved to get help so quickly, but you would be wrong.

What are the chances, though? There are only ten cops on the force. There's no way that on this one, wet night, in the middle of this long, wooded road the one cop who happens to be patrolling this stretch is—

"Carrie?"

Oh, God.

It's him. Mark. My ex—boyfriend.

I can't look. I just...can't. Too many memories are in that face. That rugged, handsome face. My heart jumps up like an excited puppy, wagging in my chest, eager to be acknowledged and touched. The rest of me shoves it down.

Officer Mark Paulson stands in front of me in uniform, soaking wet, his hat making the rain fall in streaks in front of him. The curtain of water catches my eye. It's easier to watch it than to stare at him. If I did stare, though, I know what I would see.

Broad shoulders under that crisp black uniform shirt. A thin scar running under his jaw, where he was knifed in a fight when he did a tour in Afghanistan. Wet, blonde hair I used to love to stroke. Gentle hands that once cupped my face. Eyes that could draw me in with a hot breath. The tender taste of lips meant only for me.

He speaks, pulling me out of the memory. Stop it, Carrie, I think. Stop with the dreams you destroyed.

"You okay?" he asks, looking around swiftly. He's worried. That's really touching. It's nice to know he cares. Three years is long enough for him to stop hating me, right?

And I know he hates me.

He has to. I disappeared one day and never said goodbye to him. When you do that to someone, they tend to really resent it. Especially if they love you.

"I'm, uh..." My voice fails me as I watch the water fall in sheets down his cap. "My tire blew."

He thumps his hand on the car door. "She's still around, huh?" I know he means the car, but it feels like a dig. Like he's cutting into me for leaving.

Like he's still hurt.

If he's still hurt, that means the feelings haven't faded, and if his feelings are still that strong, then mine make more sense. I thought when I left town I would shed so much damage and hurt. Because leaving town meant I could leave behind so much pain.