The big red and white ‘Crimson Ridge Fuels’ logo looms up ahead, and as I turn in, bumping over the rough curb, my little car looks like an ant compared to the cowboy-sized wagons and Chevy’s rolling around this place. I pull up next to the pump and unstick my thighs from my seat one by one as I climb out the driver’s side. Ew. The cotton of my tee clings to my lower back, and I have to discreetly readjust where my denim shorts dig into my inner thighs. This is one of those rare blink-and-you’ll-miss-it towns where they still allow customers to fill up prior to paying at the checkout. Cute.
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