Swear it felt as if this was some kind of sign, but I knew better. My feelings were only making it feel that way.
“What about you? Jackson asked. “Where would you go on vacation?”
“Maybe a tropical resort. Of course it would have to be on someone else’s dime. Still, warm sand, breezy ocean, fruity drinks, and delicious food.”
“You make that sound perfect.” Jackson sighed. “Anyway, we should finish that list while I’m playing handyman. What’s next?”
“The garage door’s been sticking,” I said, knowing I could give Jackson the vacation he wanted, just not with who he wanted.. “But you’ve done enough already.”
“Stop trying to boot me out and show me.” Jackson stood, carrying his plate to the sink.
The garage smelled like motor oil and sawdust, exactly the way it had when Dad was alive. His tools still hung in neat rows on the pegboard wall, organized with the kind of meticulousness that came from decades of practice. Mom couldn’t bear to pack them away, and honestly, neither could I.
Jackson ran his fingers over a vintage wrench with something approaching reverence. “Your dad had good taste in tools.”
“They just look like ordinary tools to me.” I pulled out a box from under the workbench, not realizing how heavy it was until the shelf no longer supported the weight. It slammed to the floor with a loud thud, missing my foot by only an inch.
“Ollie!” Jackson yanked the box up like it weighed nothing and tossed it aside. “Are you hurt?”
I stared wide-eyed at him, my heart racing. “No, it missed my foot.”
Relief flooded Jackson’s features. “Thank god. It would’ve broken your foot.”
And fucked up my vacation. Oh, and it would’ve hurt. That was important too.
“Let me handle the boxes if you want to pull them out,” Jackson said. “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”
Damn near gave me one too.
* * * *
Three days later, back at my apartment, the invitation mocked me from the coffee table where I’d set it down. Valentine’s weekend at Buckman’s resort was now less than two weeks away. The RSVP had already been sent. A moment of wine-fueled optimism I was quickly regretting.
“Just cancel,” I told the empty room. “Tell them food poisoning. Or sudden death. Both feel accurate.”
Outside my window, morning sun painted the city in shades of gold and shadow. Perfect February weather that mocked my spiraling anxiety. My coffee had gone cold twenty minutes ago, but drinking it meant accepting the day had started, meant facing the fact I needed to invite someone or I’d lose out on a trip that would never come my way again.
Nobody else existed who I wanted to take. Sure, coworkers would jump at the chance—free trip to a Caribbean resort, rubbing elbows with actual celebrities—but spending four days pretending to enjoy their company sounded worse than getting teeth pulled.
My car keys sat on the counter, a subtle reminder of Jackson’s offer. The dying walrus sounds had gotten worse, evolving into something between a banshee wail and metal scraping concrete. Yesterday, an elderly woman at the grocery store had crossed herself when I started the engine.
Before I changed my mind, I grabbed the keys. Jackson’s shop opened at eight. Early enough that maybe the other mechanics wouldn’t be there yet, wouldn’t witness whatever humiliating word vomit my mouth decided to throw up.
The drive took fifteen minutes through streets still quiet with morning calm. Each stoplight gave me another chance to turn around, go home, accept my fate as the person who couldn’t find a date to the party of the decade. Instead, my traitorous hands kept steering toward the industrial district where Jackson’s shop occupied a converted warehouse.
Motor oil and rubber assaulted my senses the moment I parked. The familiar scent should’ve been unpleasant, but it only reminded me of Jackson. Through the open bay doors, classic rock drifted out along with the metallic ping of tools against engines.
My hands trembled as I turned off the ignition. The engine gave one final, mournful shriek before dying.
“Jesus, Oliver, what’re you doing to that poor car?”
Jackson emerged from beneath a lifted truck, and my brain shorted. His navy coveralls were unzipped to the waist, revealing a white tank top that clung in ways that should’ve gotten him arrested for indecent…everything. Morning light caught the sheen of sweat already forming on his collarbones despite the cool air. His dark hair hung to just below his neckline, curling softly at the ends.
Watching him walk toward me felt like witnessing something in slow motion, all easy confidence and swagger. Those coveralls hung low on his hips, and when he smiled, genuinely pleased rather than politely acknowledging, it was like finding the right key for a stubborn lock.
“Apparently torturing it slowly,” I managed, climbing out of the car with as much dignity as someone driving a mechanical disaster could muster. “It’s developed new and exciting death rattles since I last saw you.”
Jackson’s laugh rumbled through the cold morning air, wrapping around me like hot chocolate. “Let me grab the keys and pull it in. Can’t diagnose it out here.”
