The worn-down tone in her voice stirs something inside me. “It’s not going to be cheap, but I can find a used engine, which should cut down on the cost.”
Silence weighs down the line. I can imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose tightly and her eyes turning that darker shade of green that happens when she’s frustrated or stressed. I wonder if she still gets those red splotches on her skin too.
“Fine,” she says, letting out a controlled breath. “Do whatever you have to do. I need that truck.”
I lean back against the workbench and shove my free hand into the pocket of my jeans. “Okay. It should only take me afew days, depending on how long it takes to hunt an engine down. Do you have another car you can use while it’s in the shop?”
“Yes,” she answers, her voice slipping into a higher octave. She’s lying.
I wasn’t always the smartest guy in the room, but I was intuitive. Emery inherited this truck from her grandma. And based on some light and totally justified stalking on social media, I know she’s been living in New York City for most of her twenties. The likelihood that she has another vehicle is slim.
“I can help you get a rental. Your insurance probably covers it.”
An actual growl comes from her end of the call. “Did I stutter? I said yes.”
I press my lips together, debating whether I want to poke the bear or not. The Emery I knew was stubborn and prideful. She didn’t take handouts, and she hated it when people looked at her like she was something that needed fixing. We had that in common.
“Okay,” is all I say, “but if you need a ride, I’m always available. Day or night.”
“I’d rather walk into oncoming traffic.”
“Oof,” I respond, clutching my chest. “That hurts, Bambi.”
She exhales, but I catch a twinge of amusement under her breath. There may even be a hint of a laugh in there somewhere. “Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll be waiting by the phone for your call.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“This has been fun, but I have to go. I know you’re dying to catch up some more, but duty calls. I’ll call you when your truck is ready.”
I wait for the beeping sound to indicate she’s hung up, but it never comes. Instead, she lowers her voice to almost a whisper and says, “Thank you, Knox.”
“You’re welcome. Goodbye, Emery. Talk soon.”
When I hear the click of the phone call ending, I’m still grinning like an idiot. The screen goes dark, and for a second, I just stare at my reflection in the smudged glass. She’s just as stubborn as she was when we were kids. Maybe even more.
I sigh and tuck my phone back in my pocket. The sound of her voice echoes in my head as I slowly open the hood of the car I was working on before I called her. Everything about her takes me back to that summer, and there are memories that still fill some void deep down inside me.
I spent our entire time together telling myself that she was just another fling. She would go home at the end of August, and I’d be fine because we were just having fun. But there were moments when even I couldn’t lie to myself.
I remember finding her sitting on the curb in front of her grandma’s shop one afternoon. Her phone was clutched in two shaking hands, and her eyes were glazed over with tears I knew she was fighting.
She tried to play it off, but the second I sat down beside her, I knew. “What happened, Bambi?” I asked.
It took some bad jokes and lots of prodding, but eventually she muttered something about her mom, and how she’d never measure up to her sister, who was pre-med at some prestigious college on the East Coast. She said it all as if she believed it too, and even though I barely knew her, I hated the defeat in her voice.
“I know we’re supposed to respect our parents, but your mom is wrong. You’re not a problem to fix,” I’d said, pulling her close. “You’re still figuring things out, and no one can expect us to be perfect at this age. Well, except for me. Obviously.”
She laughed at that, and it was the first time I realized maybe I didn’t want us to be temporary.
That was the night I took her to get her first tattoo. Shechose a lock tattoo for herself. It made her smile like she had finally chosen something for herself for once.
And yeah—maybe getting the matching key tattoo for a girl I barely knew wasn’t my brightest idea. But my gut told me I needed something to remember her by. I guess my gut also knew I’d push her away at some point.
Right when I’m about to turn up the dial on the radio to drown out the lingering regrets from eight years ago, I hear the distinct ding of someone entering the shop. I groan and head to the front desk.
Sal was currently at a doctor’s appointment, and we didn’t have any extra help right now. The sad “Help Wanted” sign has been hanging in our dingy window for weeks with no one willing to bite. Even someone to help out with the phones would be great.
