When I told him I worked at Alliance Traffic, he actually smirked.
Like—smirked. Looked me up and down, then said, “Wait, like…on the road? With signs and cones and stuff?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m on the field team.”
He laughed. “That’s cute.”
Cute. I’ve been on that jobsite in sideways rain, moving barricades twice my size. I’ve patched asphalt at 3 a.m. with my hair tied up in a hard hat and sweat freezing on my neck. But sure—cute.
He didn’t ask how I got there. Or that I used to waitress double shifts until a spot opened up on my cousin’s crew. Or that I studied the MUTCD front to back and aced my certs. I’ve had to prove myself more times than I can count—because I don’t “look like” I belong.
And yeah, I’m blonde. So I guess that means I’m supposed to smile, take photos in cute boots, and not run the night shift with five guys twice my age. But I do.
Then I looked him dead in the eye and said something I’ve never told anyone on a first date before.
And the way his face changed—I knew right then this night was about to get real interesting.
I set my bottle down and said, “I got into traffic work because I was in an accident four years ago. It happened in a construction zone where the signs weren’t set up properly.”
His expression flickered with a hint of confusion and then curiosity. The smirk was gone. “Oh,” he said softly.
My heart started racing. I normally didn’t talk about that night. Not with strangers, not with old friends, not even with my own dad. I took a breath and spoke anyway. “It was late. I was driving home from a shift at the diner. I was tired, but I wasn’t messing around on my phone or anything. The construction zone was poorly lit, and some of the cones were knocked over by the wind. I swerved to avoid a big chunk of debris and ended up spinning out.”
I paused, feeling the phantom ache in my shoulder. “I hit the concrete barrier so hard the doctors weren’t sure I’d walk away without permanent injuries. But after surgeries, therapy, and a ton of grit, I got back on my feet.”