1
February
There’s a hissing and sputtering sound, and then my window is filled with smoke.
“No, no, no,shit.” This can’t be happening. I don’t have time for my van to conk out on me.
I put my hazards on and pull off to the side of the road, taking a deep breath before I get out and do my best to assess the damage.
When I try to open the hood, it’s too hot for my bare fingers. With a yelp, I pull my hand back, rubbing my fingertips on my shirt like it will help the pain. Rounding the van to the passenger side, I’m extra grateful I keep stray baking mitts in there. Sliding one on, I grip the hood and open it, trying to figure out the problem.
It looks…smokey.I don’t know shit about cars, but my best friend, Slater, does.
I pull out my phone, hoping and praying I have reception.
I sigh with relief when I see I do.
I click on Slater’s contact, and he answers on the third ring. “This is Slater.”
“I know it’s you, asshole, I’m the one who called you. What does it mean when a car is smoking?”
“Where is the smoke coming from? What color is it? Is it making any weird sounds?”
“Well, it’s coming from under the hood. The smoke is… smoke colored? I didn’t notice any weird noises.” If there were any, they were drowned out by my pop music.
Slater sighs. “You’re helpless, my guy. Is the smoke white, gray, or black?”
“White.”
“All right, that’s good. It’s probably just your radiator. Call a tow truck and get it to a shop. Better to be safe than drive with a damaged vehicle. We don’t want to lose Cupid before the big day.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Let me know if you need a ride.”
We hang up, and I look up mechanic shops in the area. Merv’s is the closest and has four and a half stars, so I click the phone icon to call them.
“Merv’s,” a gruff, weathered voice answers.
“Hi, my name is Saint Valentine, and I think there’s something wrong with my radiator. I was hoping to get a tow?—”
“Where ya at?”
“Mile marker 743 on Highway 45. It’s a big white?—”
“Patrick will be there in fifteen and bring ya to the shop. Mikey’ll getcha fixed up,” he interrupts again.
“Thank you?—”
The line goes dead before I can finish my sentence. I blink at my phone.
What a way to run a business.
Twenty minutes later, a beat up looking tow truck pulls in front of me. A guy who doesn’t look older than twenty-one hops out, his shaggy black hair half in his eyes. His dark gray coveralls are covered in grease stains, and the red embroidered patch informs me his name is Patrick.
He tips his chin up at me. “You Saint Valentine?”
“Yes. Are you from Merv’s?”
