“So… did I hit your car?”

I was 16. I had had my driver’s license for mere months. I was driving to my sister-in-law’s house, across town, shortly after she had given birth to my nephew. The rain pelted down, a semi tractor trailer cut in front of me, I hit the brakes while also attempting to swerve out of the way. I learned quickly this was not a good combination. I remember spiraling out of control, maybe I shut my eyes, I thought I hit something, and then I was still. I got out of my car, saw I had no damage, realized I was okay, and I began to think maybe I imagined all of this.

“So… did I hit your car?” I asked the middle aged man standing outside of his brand new BMW with the paper tags. Then I looked down. I had sliced his car from front bumper to rear. I started crying. “I’m so… I’m so sorry.” He asked me if I was okay. I told him I was. He asked to see my license and insurance. I showed him, and he said, “I’m on the way to the airport. I need to get going. I know your Dad, and will reach out to him. Are you sure you’re okay?” I assured him I was and apologized profusely. He told me not to worry and to take care.

Today I was engrossed in making Samin Nosrat’s big lasagna for the ten guests I was expecting at 6 pm. The doorbell rang at 4 pm and I assumed it was a delivery person notifying me I had a package. I opened the door to two upset young people. They kept apologizing. “I’m so sorry; I’m so sorry…” They had hit my car parked in front of my house; the rear tire was severed, brake fluid leaking on the road, the car pushed onto the grassy median.

I remembered all those years ago when I was sixteen and frightened. I took a deep breath. “Are you okay? Let’s take a look.” I surveyed the damage, and asked if they could start their car to move it out of the street. They did, and the young lady had already called the police. My initial thought was that I was so grateful they had told me they had hit my car. Maybe they could have hit and run? I told them I appreciated them letting me know what had happened and invited them inside out of the nearly freezing weather. I gave them water and tried to make conversation to distract them from the shock of what had happened. They had come to Asheville from Charlotte to get tattoos. After a few moments of silence, I awkwardly asked, “So, how do you decide what to get a tattoo of?” And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt like a 100-year old granny. They graciously answered, talking about favorite artists, designs seen on the internet, etc.

The police arrived quite a while later, and told them their car would have to be towed; it wasn’t drivable. We stood outside for a long time until the officer gave us a copy of his report, and said he’d wait for the tow company. I asked if we could wait inside, and he said yes. They told me they’d called their brother, who lived in Charlotte, to come pick them up. It would be at least 2.5 hours before he arrived.

I excused myself to continue to make lasagna and prepare for guests. I invited them to make themselves at home. He helped me set the table and center the long tablecloth over the leaves. He offered to fill the water glasses as I cleaned the kitchen. The guests arrived and I made introductions as if everyone was supposed to be there.

Folks piled small plates with appetizers and we chatted in the living room. After a bit, everyone came to the kitchen to make a plate and join around the table. We scooched closer together to make room for the two extra guests, and brought out folding chairs. Over dinner we talked about tv shows, dating norms, family dynamics, relationship norms. As we were clearing the dinner dishes to get ready for dessert, they told me their ride had arrived. He hugged me tight, and said this was like a real life Hallmark movie. He couldn’t have known that was the largest compliment he could have given. Hallmark movies were Mom’s favorites. Because no matter what the plot, things worked out in the end. And today worked out.