All I see when the door opens on the far side is the brim of a black cowboy hat and some messy dark curls. The pump clunks to a sudden halt, jolting me back to earth before I can catch a proper glimpse, and I quickly hang the nozzle up. Christ, Layla, get it together. Before darting off inside, I glance at the dial to double check the total. The numbers are broken—of course they are, fucking typical—but I know what it costs on average to fill my car’s tank up, and the eighty-nine dollars left in my bank account will easily cover that, plus some Ramen for dinner until my next payday.
