She needs a proper kitchen to cook in, and if cooking isn’t her thing, I’ll cook for her. She shouldn’t have to sleep on a full-size bed. She should have the best mattress, a California King, with ample room to spread out on satin sheets.
My kitchen. My bed. My sheets. My house.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
For the past three months, I’ve had to stop myself from calling the shop to hear her voice and make sure she’s safe. I’ve had to hold myself back from driving down there to check on her. I need to see her in person. My imagination has been running away with scenarios where someone breaks into her apartment because of her shitty-ass lock and hurts her.
Do I know she can probably handle herself if something were to happen? Yes. Do I recognize she’s lived this long without me getting all protective of her? Also yes.
But I’ve still spent the last three months riddled with anxiety about her getting murdered in her sleep. The thought of potentially losing her before I’ve even had the chance to have her threatens to give me an ulcer.
Which is why I’m once again driving to Salem the day before Cupid’s Cove’s biggest celebration of the year. It’s officially been one year since I met Mikey.
I don’t even know her last name.
If I can’t find the nerve to ask her out today, I’m going to have to buy a new car to start breaking because I think I’ve exhausted pretty much all of the things I can reasonably do to the van.
Slater told me if I don’t do it today, I have to move on. He refuses to give me any other tips for breaking my van, saying a year is too long, and he’s not helping my pathetic ass anymore.
Rude.
But he’s right. A year is long enough. I can’t let it play out any longer.
I just don’t know why I haven’t made a move yet. I can’t put my finger on what’s keeping me back. I’m not usually so… shy. I mean, my whole thing is helping people take the leap to find love.
Why the hell is it so hard to do it for myself?
Pulling off to the side of the road, I open the hood and grab the screwdriver Slater gave me. I scan the contents, trying to remember which shiny, silver thing I'm supposed to disconnect. With a shrug, I start trying to pull off a steel hose. There are no screws, which is strange, but the screwdriver is thin enough to help pry it off, I guess. It takes some effort, but it finally disconnects and liquid starts dripping out, and the scent of gas permeates my nose.
Huh. I thought this was connected to an air thingy.
Wiping my hands on a rag, I get back in the van and turn the key.
It dies immediately.
Slater said it wouldn't start the first time, so turn it again.
Nothing.
I try a third, fourth, fifth time hoping it’s just taking its sweet time, but it never works.
Oh shit.
No, no, no.
Slater said it wouldn’t damage the van! He said it would still be drivable!
Yanking my phone from the holder on the dashboard, I click on his contact information.
“This is Slater,” he answers.
“I know it’s you, asshole. My van won’t start.”
The line goes so silent I pull it away from my ear to make sure it’s still connected.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Come again?”
“My van won’t start! I did what you said. I stuck my screwdriver into the connector and pried it open.”
