Lula Mae Darling melts behind the cash register of a gas station off Interstate 95. Through the translucent cigarette ads, a faded, peeling South of the Border billboard glows into the night; its hypnotic imagery pressures children into every parent’s nightmare: a roadside amusement pit stop money guzzler. She’s never been. She doesn’t even know if it’s still open. An offensive sombrero and other remnants of honky Americana glare down at the interstate audible through the open window. Rod’s Road Stop is the only gas station off the only exit for miles. There ain’t even air conditioning.

An oscillating fan helps make the inside of the gas station a more humane temperature on this early spring morning. Her blonde hair sticks to the humidity, whipped up into a messy cotton candy-like bun atop her head. Behind her flaking mascara, her tattooed eyeliner remains as perfect as the day she got it at eighteen. Working the night shift does that to people – priorities become things like looking decent and owning blackout curtains.

The bell rings as a customer walks in. Another trucker, she assumes – a dirty, sweaty grey cap and a grungy jacket that was probably light green or grey in another life silently glide by her periphery. Truckers always manage to snag some kind of smile from her, forced or otherwise. They grab enough snacks, sandwich fixings, and drinks for another eight to twelve hours on the road. With any luck, they piss in the bathroom and not on the side of the building. The worst of them use the outside of the building for other things. Then, they pay her on the way out and ask for the receipts, except for cigarettes and booze. Paid in cash, they trash those receipts while they rattle on about their wild tales of the road and ex-wives they left behind for a lifestyle that will kill them by age sixty-five.

She chews her flavorless gum and taps her gel nails on the counter quietly, watching the guy in the grey cap through the security camera. He’s so disappointing. She rolls her eyes back to objects around the register. Someday, one of them will be young and handsome enough to whisk me away on some crazy adventure. Then, I can start a new life once we get sick of each other on the opposite side of the country. I ain’t naïve. She lifts her hand and stares at the glitter in her pink nail polish. South Carolina ain’t exactly the most expensive place to live until then, I guess. With a deep inhale, she lets out a deeper sigh, catching her reflection in a small mirror near one of the locking glass cigarette cabinets. Mama says as long as I’m pretty, funny, and keep my nose clean, I can find someone more interesting to latch on to and hitch a ride somewhere also more interesting. Her green eyes dash away from the warped mirror back to the security cameras. Whatever that means.

The trucker in the grey cap shuffles over in the corner near the drinks. Poor guy must be indecisive. Long night, maybe? She looks out into the parking lot, searching for his truck or the company he’s driving for, but can’t locate any vehicles on the security cameras or through the window. The owner of the store, her uncle, a big fella named Rod, works hard to prevent any blind spots due to “them illegal Mexicans coming up I-95,” he keeps rambling on about. 

Lula Mae tells him he’s “full of crap,” but Rod rolls his eyes because everyone tells Rod he’s full of crap.

Trying to keep busy, she rearranges the tobacco and nicotine displays behind the counter and muses. Less of them smoke now than when she first started working here in high school. The inventory shows it. The store carries fewer brands of cigarettes than it used to. Fewer trucking companies allow smoking in company-owned cabs. Vaping products now line the emptied former cigarette shelves. With Rod baffled by the batteries and fruity-flavored concoctions, Lula Mae and her cousin do all the buying.

The hair on her neck stands on end when she notices the time: 4:45 AM. The security camera fails to pick up the trucker in the grey cap. An electrical realization runs up her spine as the absence of an engine idling hits her. Did she see his face when he walked in? Working alone until 5:00 AM, she gulps down the knot forming in her throat. There’s too much money in the drawer. Her eyes dart between the security camera monitors attempting to locate the trucker in the store. I can’t move money to the safe while there’s a customer here. She picks up the phone and dials. “Hey, Uncle Rod, Becca Lynn hasn’t shown up yet. Is she still at the house?”

Her uncle slurps his morning black coffee. Images of Rod’s signature aromatic sewage invade Lula Mae’s mind. “She left ’bout a half-hour ago. Should ‘a been there by now. I’ll head on down there and see if she got a flat tire or somethin’. See you soon, Lula Mae.” The receiver clicks.

The man in the grey cap continues to fumble around the store and pausing every so often out of sight of the security camera. First, he ducks behind a stack of cases of water. Next, he crouches to the lower shelves of the bags of chips. It should soon start to pick up as the long haulers depart the shipping centers with their dispatches, Lula Mae worries. She fidgets with her phone and opens a web browser.

She types, “How to tell if you’re going to be robbed” into the search bar.

The search returns nothing but ads for security companies and useless sponsored articles. Her eyes return to the security camera monitor, glimpsing a momentary flash. The man holds his jacket, wrapping his arm around one side as if he’s protecting something. The lump in her throat protests her attempts to swallow her nerves.

The man finally selects a drink from the fridge, a bag of chips, and a coffee. Approaching the counter, he lifts his head, revealing his tanned skin and stark cornflower blue eyes with tufts of light brown hair poking out from his cap. Lula Mae’s anxiety evaporates as the corners of her mouth twist upward with relief and adoration. He’s weathered, but damn handsome. He’s probably around thirty, so a bit older than me, but I like that. His jacket hangs open, and his wallet pokes through a hole in the pocket to the inside, barely staying in. “Morning! Is this all for you?” Her smile widens while ringing each item up.

“That’s it, Lula Mae.” His face softens as he brightens and gazes into her eyes. “Hey now, what’s the ‘D’ on your nametag for?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She laughs and hands him his coffee, noticing how clean his hands are, compared to the jacket and hat. With the chilled bottle of sweet tea and chips in a bag, she hands it to his other hand.

“Try me.” He brushes her hand with the back of his own, sending chills up her spine.

“Darling. Lula Mae Darling.” She blushes, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “What’s your name?”

“Henry Bryan. But everyone calls me Hank.” He nods toward her, setting the coffee down and adjusting his cap with a hint of the same Southern drawl that seeps from his voice.

She bites the edge of her lip, then smiles again. “It’s nice to meet you, Hank.” She leans over the counter to get a better look at him. Maybe he’s younger than thirty, closer to early twenties like me – just never met a bottle of sunscreen in his life. “Where’ you from?”

“Savannah, Ma’am. Hoping to go home soon. I’m ‘fraid there been fires, but we ain’t heard a word.” His jaw slacks and eyes drop. “It’s been a hard winter for our company.”

Lula Mae reaches her hand across the counter and places it over one of Hank’s cold hands. “Sounds like it. Heading back to Savannah then?”

Hank nods. “Feels like I ain’t been home in over a hundred years.” His intense eyes become distant, then hopeful as they return to meet her gaze. “Hey, now, you wouldn’t be up for an adventure down to Savannah, now would you?” His cornflower eyes twinkle. Lula Mae’s pupils dilate as her heart flutters.

“Would I ever! It’s nearly five now, and I’m s’posed to clock out. Let me write a note to my uncle and lock this place up. I’ll meet you outside, ya hear?” She hops around the counter to him and takes his hand with the bag, walking him to the door.

“You’re sweet as tea in summer, Lula Mae.” Hank squeezes her hand gently as she opens the door for him, and he steps outside before she locks him out.

She pauses in her euphoria, gazing at the interior of the gas station one last time. With a grin, she changes signs, turns off the pumps, grabs her purse, then prepares and locks the bank bag in the safe before clocking out. In a jubilant script, she scrawls a note on the counter, then locks the front door, checking the time on her phone: 5:05 AM.

When her Uncle Rod arrives after rescuing Becca Lynn from her car’s fate, the gas station sits vacant save the note.

Gone on a short adventure to Savannah with a new friend named Hank. You’ll see him on security footage. Be back soon.

Love, Lula Mae

“Who’s Hank?” Becca Lynn asks, screwing up her face as her father studies the note.

Calls to her cell phone go straight to voicemail. Uncle Rod rewinds the security tapes to 4:45 AM. He watches Lula Mae return her phone to the counter behind the register. No one enters the store. At 5:00 AM, she buys herself a coffee, sweet tea, and a bag of chips, then places the bag and coffee outside the front door before locking it. In disbelief, Becca Lynn and Uncle Rod watch the tape replay. Lula Mae closes up the store, picks up the bag, and walks out alone at 5:05 AM. Turning her head to no one in particular, she walks with a smile until she is out of view, chatting to herself the whole way.