I don’t answer fast enough.
Her lips twitch.
I look back at the battery before she can see the heat rising in my neck.
Her voice is small. “So… what’s the diagnosis, Doctor Mechanic?”
“It’s dead,” I say.
She sighs, long and theatrical. “Great. Fantastic. I love when machines betray me before noon.”
I look at her properly this time. Another baggy jumper, leggings, layers hanging off her like she’s afraid the sun might touch her. It’s June. Warm enough that normal people aren’t dressing for October. Maybe she’s got terrible circulation. Or perhaps this is just what passes for style where she’s from. City butterheads would probably call it intentional. The thought almost makes me laugh. Almost.
“Great. Amazing. Perfect. Love that for me.” She kicks a pebble, doesn’t even graze it, then pretends that was the plan all along. “Can I… revive it with positive thoughts?”
“No.”
“With caffeine?”
“No.”
“With, I don’t know, unfocused rage and a playlist?”
I give her a look, the kind that should answer the next five questions she hasn’t asked yet. She deflates with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. How do I fix it?”
“You don’t.” I nod toward my driveway. “I’ll get my truck. We’ll jump it.”
Her expression softens like I’ve just offered her a puppy. “You’re helping me?”
“It’s either that or listen to you swear at the engine for the next hour.”
“That’s fair,” she says, because even she can’t argue with that.
I grab the jumper cables from the garage and pull the truck around. She watches me hook things up with wide, fascinated eyes—as if I’m performing open-heart surgery, not clipping metal to metal.
“This looks very… science,” she says.
“It isn’t.”
“Still science-y.”
I double-check the clamps, then straighten. “Alright. When I start the truck, your SUV should get enough charge. Don’t touch anything.”
“I’ll just stand here. Looking pretty.”
I shouldn’t look.
But, I do.
And she is pretty. Her messy hair, tired eyes, one knee smudged with what looks like dried paint. Chaotic, disorganized, completely opposite of everything I prefer. And beautiful.
Focus.
I start my truck; the engine rumbles to life.
“Start your car.”
She climbs back in and turns the ignition. The SUV coughs. Fails. Then—on the next attempt—it turns over with a reluctant growl.
