If I Fix You. Эбигейл Джонсон
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out my eyes.” He caught my hand and tugged me close—real close—and it was all I could do not to step back. “I look like the biggest pothead on the planet. I’m pretty sure my mom is secretly drug testing me even though she knows I work nights.”
I should have been able to dismiss a casual touch from Sean as easily as he did from me. Not that I was able to casually touch him yet, but that was the goal.
The casual part, not the touching.
I freed my hand without effort. “They are pretty red.” But still that same achingly perfect blue.
Through the windows of the garage, Sean noticed my dad’s truck was gone. “I thought you were kidding about your dad firing you for being late.” Sean gestured with his chin toward the garage. “That a bad sign?”
“No, I woke him up climbing through my window this morning, so he was going to go in early. It’s cool, I’ll just ride my bike.”
“I didn’t know you were still doing the roof thing.”
I saw my own discomfort mirrored in his eyes and realized his comment had reminded us both that we hadn’t talked much in months, and never about anything of consequence.
“I don’t mind dropping you off at the shop,” Sean added.
“You’re forgetting I just saw up close how exhausted you are.” I tried for a smile. “Really, it’s fine. I need to take a shower and everything. Go home. Get some sleep.”
Staring straight ahead, Sean said, “You hate that bike.”
So I did, vehemently. And he knew I was choosing it over him.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Claire makes it better, doesn’t she?”
My smile came easier that time. It wasn’t wide, but it was honest. “Yeah.”
“So we have to be sweating at the butt crack of dawn, just to be around each other? Awesome.”
“We’re around each other now.” And it was only half as hard as I’d feared.
He glanced at the still-lightening sky and fingered the edge of my damp T-shirt. “Kinda my point.”
He meant it to be a joke, based on the way he cocked his head at me, but laughing was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be able to hang out with him sans buffer. Claire did make things easier, but she also kept things stagnant, and we wouldn’t fix anything if we stayed like that.
I looked through his window and saw my bike crowded into the Jetta’s backseat. I did hate it. “Help me with it?” I meant the bike, but more than that too. I envied him and his godlike power of pretending things were okay. He made it look so easy. Smile, tease, flirt, repeat. I was still struggling.
My head was always clearer when my hands were busy, and I needed clearer. Things with Sean could get murky if I let them. I moved to the back door to pull my bike out. Without comment, Sean stepped around me, and between the two of us, we got it out without undue bloodshed. A triumph on any other day, but that day it wasn’t enough.
I entered the code to open the garage and rolled my bike in, pausing with my back to him. “Maybe I will take that ride.”
“You sure?”
I was. I hoped I was. “Yes.”
In the blink of an eye, Sean changed. The stiffness in his posture relaxed, the shape of his mouth lifted, even his eyes seemed to change. It wasn’t until that change washed over him that I realized how much he’d been holding back, how I’d been missing him even when I saw him almost every day. He flashed a dimple and held his arms open.
If I still loved him, in that moment, I’d have known exactly why.
“Sweaty hug on it?”
My eyes darted from his arms to his eyes and back again. He was asking me to accept more than a ride. A lot more. It was starting to feel like too much, but I wouldn’t know if I didn’t try.
I stepped into him, my cheek pressing against his damp T-shirt.
“Wow, you sweat a lot for a girl.”
My heart was steady as I smiled into Sean’s chest, silently thanking him for saying the exact right thing to keep the moment light and easy. When he seemed reluctant to let go, I stayed in his arms a second longer, relieved that hugging him didn’t hurt. Not much anyway.
After taking the world’s fastest shower, and Sean taking the whole yellow-lights-mean-slow-down law as merely a suggestion, I made it to work on time.
Sean waited until I pulled the door open and waved him on before driving away. I watched him go, lowering my hand slowly. We’d done that a million times, and I remembered the rides that had ended with me dancing through the door when he was out of sight. Today my feet stayed firmly on the ground, but I did watch for longer than I should have. He had to have been nearly home by the time I walked into Jim’s Auto Shop and let a blast of frigid air and the dark, dank scent of motor oil embrace me.
I inhaled deeply and smiled, relieved to leave Sean and the past outside. For some people it was fresh-baked cookies or apple pie hot out of the oven, but for me, the shop smelled like home. Unfortunately it sounded like home too.
Dad had a thing for Hall & Oates, and since I was like two seconds late, he already had the band blaring. Once the music was set, nobody else in the garage could touch it. Shop rules.
When I entered the main garage bay, Dad was in full-on awkward dance mode half-hidden behind the crumpled hood of a Land Cruiser. He spotted me and grinned while lip-synching to the chorus of “Private Eyes” and he pointed to the dry-erase board on the wall.
The work board. I always approached it with an addictive mix of fear and excitement, like Jigsaw or Santa Claus might be waiting for me. Sometimes Dad would banish me to the office for a morning spent chained to the desk, or assign me to endless oil changes. My favorite jobs were the unknowns; the vehicles that came in with serious emotional problems that hid behind odd growls or unexplained shakes.
And of course the shinies, the head turners that we humble mechanics never otherwise got to drive.
My feet began to drag the closer I got to the board. “Come on, really?”
Dad shimmied my way and told Hall & Oates to take five by turning down the volume. “You got something against Acuras?”
“I do when they aren’t Mustangs, which we also have in the shop today.” I tapped it on the board. “You haven’t even assigned it to anyone, unless you hired...” I squinted at the tiny figure Dad had drawn. “The devil in a golf cart without telling me?”
Dad straightened. “That’s a speed demon.” He was always drawing little figures, leftovers from when he wanted to be a cartoonist.
I leaned closer. “That’s actually pretty good, but seriously, where are we on the Mustang?”
“The Mustang isn’t a rush, but I tell you what. The toilet is backed up, so if you’d rather I start on bleeding the cooling system on the Acura, we can swap.”
I slumped forward on the counter and rested my chin on my hands. “Do you ever worry about spoiling me with such a glamorous life?”
Dad laughed long and hard and reached out to rub my cheek with his thumb to show me a smear of grease that I’d somehow managed to get on my face already. He had the most contagious laugh.
“You want the Mustang?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“And what do I get?”
“I’ll close tonight so you can catch the game.”
“What