Writing Beyond the Ending "At Seventeen"

He glanced at the track her car had left in the sandy edges of the road and, although it was not the way he’d planned to go, he swung his car around and followed.
It was still early afternoon and the sun beat down on the roof of his rusted wagon. Beads of sweat collected at the base of his neck and formed a salty pool.
The tracks were getting harder to follow now but he figured as long as he stuck to the main stretch of highway she couldn’t have gone very far, unless she had gone off road.
He drove past dried out trees and Spinifex, craning his neck to read signs as he sped along the open road, not wanting to risk the chance of losing her. ‘NEXT ROADHOUSE 15KMS’. A glimmer of hope rose within him; it was the last petrol station for at least another four hours, she’d have to stop sometime.
As the station approached he hung out of the window and shielded his eyes with a brown hand. He couldn’t quite make out the shape but he was sure it was her. Yes, it was clearer now; an old ute with a motorcycle in the tray and a slim figure just beside it. He slowed down and pulled into the station, a conspicuous grin on his face. But wait, where was her board? His surety faded, it wasn’t her, it wasn’t his angle.
Determined to press on his wagon was going as fast as he could make it. Time had been wasted stopping there. Why hadn’t he checked for her board instead of just assuming she would wait for him?
As these thoughts raced through his head a blur of crimson flew past the window. Could it be? He glanced in the rear view mirror and slammed his foot down on the brake. The wagon squealed as he spun the wheel around and raced back the way he came.
Standing there on the side of the road was his surfer girl, red board and all.
‘Need a lift?’ he called out the side window.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’