He walks past me toward the garage doors, and I follow, confused. He heads straight for his truck, opens the driver’s side door, and goes completely still.
“What the hell.”
I bite my lip. “I might have tidied up a little.”
“A little?” He’s staring at the interior like he’s never seen it before. Which, in fairness, he probably hasn’t—not like this. “Tessa. What did you do to my truck?”
“I organized it.”
“You—” He opens the glove box. Stares at the labeled dividers. Closes it. Opens it again. “There are tabs. There arelabeled tabsin my glove box.”
“For registration, insurance, and receipts. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You didn’t have to.” I’m fighting a smile now. “I couldn’t find your registration when I needed it. It took me twenty minutes. It was under a pile of napkins and what I think was a very old burrito wrapper.”
“That wrapper was sentimental.”
“It was moldy.”
“Sentimental mold.” But he’s leaning into the truck now, taking in the cup holder organizer, the door pocket bins, the complete absence of trash on the floor. “I can see my floor. I didn’t know my floor was that color.”
“It’s gray. You’re welcome.”
He turns to look at me, and his expression is caught somewhere between horror and something else I can’t quite name. “You organized my entire truck.”
“I was stressed. I organize when I’m stressed.”
“Most people stress-eat. Or stress-drink. You stress-organize other people’s vehicles.”
“Ben, there was a french fry under your seat from what I can only assume was the Clinton administration.”
“That fry was a friend.”
“That fry was a health hazard.”
He’s staring at me now, jaw working, and I can’t tell if he wants to yell at me or laugh. Maybe both.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t know whether to thank me or ban me from your truck forever.”
“I’m considering both.” But his mouth is twitching. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
“I prefer ‘helpful.’“
“You would.” He shakes his head and heads back into the garage. I follow, because I still need my actual car keys.
He grabs them from the counter and holds them out. “Now, you’ve got your car. Anything else?”
I take the keys but don’t move toward my car. “Actually, yes. The auction.”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
