“No, my van.” She points one of her arms to the vehicle next to her. “Van Gogh. It died.”
“Oh, yeah, that actually makes more sense.” I nod, bobbing my head.
“You’re not a serial killer, are you?” The girl—woman—doesn’t ask it like a question she wants me to answer. She says it like it’s a realization, confirmation of something she’d been weighing.
“If I am, I’m the worst one in history. Zero confirmed kills. Not even a single attempt. In fact, they’re going to kick me out of the National Association of Serial Killers soon for just not getting the job done. Apparently, I’m an embarrassment. ‘Bad for the brand.’” I give her air quotes.
“Oof,” she says, not missing a beat. Her face pulls in a way that shouldn’t look as good as it does. But then, full of interest, dry as the sawdust on the floor of my brother’s auto shop, she asks, “Have you tried talking to your NASK union representative? There must be some form of recourse for you, this sounds unjust.”
I give her a one-shouldered shrug and a long, defeated sigh. “They say I’m just not ambitious enough. Little do they know I was just there for the free buffet on the first day, and I only stayed this long for the benefits.”
She puts on an affected, overly concerned tone. “Gosh, what are you going to do now? How will you make ends meet?”
“It’s been rough,” I say with a somber nod of my head. “Had to auction off two of my kids just so I could feed the other seven.”
Her eyes make a run for my left hand—ring-free—and back up to my face, a sparkle in those unique-colored irises.
“Well, if you can help me get my van up and running again, I might be able to throw in a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese for your trouble. Afraid I don’t have much more to offer when it comes to rugrats.”
I give in to the pull, let my eyes rake down her frame for just a beat, before meeting that mysterious gaze once more. “Shame.” It could be my imagination, or maybe it’s the cool dusk air, but I could swear she shivers at the tone I use. “They could really usea new mom, since theirs left me for an ex-con. She told me, and I quote, ‘at least he’s got a record. What have you ever done?’”
Finally,finally, I get a giggle from the girl. She covers her mouth delicately with a few fingers and gives in for just a second before regaining her composure and looking back at me, straight-faced. I shouldn’t be mesmerized by a stranger, a clearly morbid one at that.
What is this impulse I have to lighten her mood?
Why is it any of my business if she laughs or not?
Yet here I am, following her lead, this dark little angel with the morose sense of humor, determined to lighten her burden. Couldn’t tell you what hers is, but I could tell you it’s there. Undoubtedly.
“Maybe today is my lucky day,” I tell her with a hopeful, boyish grin. “Maybe if I can fix your van, I can finally have an accomplishment to my name, and my family will be whole again.”
“Who would I be to stand in the way of that?” the angel asks, a hand on her chest.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” I tell her, flashing another smile. It pierces her cool exterior, I see it happen in real time.
This isn’t one-sided. Seeing a visceral reaction like that in a woman I just met—hell, any woman—doesn’t normally send a thrill running through my veins, but that sure just did.
My system must think a fresh scent is in the air for me to chase. It didn’t get the memo that I’m here to help with rearranging her car’s insides, not the beautiful girl’s.
“Please, be my guest.” She waves a hand in offer to the van behind her, and I step over toward it.
“So what’s going on with this Van Gogh?” I ask.
“Everything was going fine, until we passed this other van on the road, and I dunno, I think he started to get jealous or something. Before I knew it, he cut off one of his own sidemirrors and threw it at a prostitute we passed back in Florida, and now he’s just a mess.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. She’s funny. Refreshingly so.
“And here I was hoping it was going to be as easy as a flat tire. If your van is having a mental health crisis, this might require a professional.” One side of my mouth tips up at her and she grins back at me.
“I’m just kidding. Van Gogh is female, and she wouldneverdeface herself over another van. She doesn’t get into other-van drama. She’s got more self-esteem than that.”
“The energy this world needs in these times,” I say solemnly. “Maybe she could start a podcast and inspire more vehicles to feel good about themselves.”
Her eyes widen before a grin splits her face. “Would you believe that she and I werejustdiscussing her opportunities on the way here? I told her at her age, she’s not going to land a TV gig without getting a new pair of headlights, but she’s still got the presence for a podcast if she hustles. She’s not getting any younger, you know.”
My head falls back as my laugh splits the peaceful night air.
This is certainly somewhere I never saw my first evening back in Smoky Heights going.Anyevening in the Heights going. I was already going to check out her van, but now I feel like I owe her more than that for the laughs and the best part of a half hour I’ll probably get for the rest of my stay here.
