DivaSixteen
AT SIX-THIRTY SHARP, a bright red pickup truck came tearing down our driveway in a cloud of dust. Beth’s Dad bought her the 4x4 for her eighteenth birthday. “Boys love girls in trucks,” he’d said as he handed her the keys. We’d all laughed because she had to have the seat customized so she could reach the pedals and still see out the windshield. Beth barely topped five feet, but she loved that truck. I stepped off the front porch and sauntered toward where she’d stopped, but I was still...