“I’ve been busy,” I say, my tone prickly. “Our little project is a bit of a time suck, in case you haven’t noticed.”
He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. “Pop the trunk,” he says, opening his door and stepping outside.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Changing your tire and then taking you to get an oil change.” He shuts the door and walks to the back of my SUV. A wall of toxic fumes and burnt rubber punches me in the face the moment I step out of the car. I follow Eli, unnerved by the asphalt hellhole that is the connector.
Eli opens the trunk and removes the cover for the underside compartment. He takes out the spare tire, a black box marked by a bright red triangle, and other metal tools I didn’t know lived there.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, searching on my phone for my car’s roadside assistance app. “I’ll call for help.”
“It’ll take those guys an hour to get here. Maybe more with this traffic.”
I glance back at the highway, where thousands of vehicles are crammed bumper-to-bumper, all because some engineer, in their infinite wisdom, decided the solution to this city’s traffic nightmare was merging two highways into a twelve-lane sprawl.
Eli takes off his new sweater and shirt, stripping down to a white undershirt. His undershirt rises slightly, offering me a glimpse of the very toned torso underneath. San Antonio, what are you doing to me?Is this who I’ve become? A single, almost thirty, unemployed disaster, leering at an unpredictable (albeit smoking hot) man on the side of the highway?
I step back as he effortlessly rolls the spare to the flat side of the car. “It’ll take me ten minutes.”
“Wait,” I say with so much urgency that he stops cold. “It’smy car.” I take off my brand-new jacket and my watch, then pull my hair up. “I should be able to do this.”
Eli watches me with that sardonic amusement he seems to save only for me. I can’t tell whether he finds me silly or just plain insufferable—maybe both. I’m going for badass feminist, as in, got-it-together gal who can change a tire in heels and doesn’t need a man’s help. And yeah, maybe I need to prove to myself that I don’t need his help.
I got this.
“Okay,” he says, passing me the black box, which admittedly weighs a ton. “Have at it.”
He leans the spare against the side of the SUV and steps back. I squat next to the flat, assessing the situation and trying my hardest to remember Papi’s tire-changing lesson on the day I got my learner’s permit fourteen years ago. In theory, I know I have to use a jack to lift the car, unfasten the nut bolts, swap the tire, replace the nuts, then bring the car down again.
I open the black box and study its contents—a jack and something that looks like a drill? I pull out my phone and search “how to change a flat tire” on YouTube. I add “on the side of the highway” for good measure. The options seem endless. Dozens of men explain the exact same thing in as many different ways.
I sense Eli standing quietly behind me, watching over my shoulder.
“You’ve got a fancy electric jack,” he says after I’ve hit stop and play for the fourth or fifth time. “The ones in the videos are all manual.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, opening the electric jack’s instructions to page one.
Behind me, Eli exhales—hard. I peer over my shoulder and find him staring down at me, one arm crossed over his abs, the other pulling at his face, wrapped tightly around his jaw.
“You can go wait inside the car if you want,” I say coolly. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“God, you’re stubborn,” he says, shaking his head.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” I grumble, then more loudly, “I prefer strong-willed.” I leaf through the manual, tryingin vain to speed-read the contents, refusing to call it quits on a matter of principle. “Maybe even endearingly so.”
This makes him snort. “Well, I hope you’re willing to die out here,” he observes. “?’Cause any minute now, we may get crushed against that concrete wall.” He nods toward the cement barricades lining the emergency lane. “Not to mention, you’re about to be doing this in the dark.”
I ignore the commentary, because no, I don’t have a death wish, or a flashlight for that matter—other than the one on the phone I’m currently using to translate the lingo in this manual. And yes, I’ll admit that maybe it is dangerous to be out here in the dark.
Eli crouches down next to me so that we’re at eye level. “Luisa,” he says, but I’m only half listening.
“Uh-huh,” I respond, my attention completely absorbed by this stupid manual, which I’m convinced was written by a German aeronautical engineer. Apparently, I need to block the tires in the front before lifting, but with what?
Eli places his warm hand on my arm. “Luisa,” he repeats. The touch startles me. I gaze up to meet his eyes, staring back at me. “Let me do this for you.” The kindness in his voice momentarily disarms me. “You’ve spent weeks washing my hair, buying me new clothes—”
“That was part of the agreement,” I interject, my tone businesslike, transactional, eager to put some distance between us. “We made a deal. Let’s just agree we’re both in this for our own purposes.” I pull away and, instantly, a burning sensation pricks at my skin in the spot where his hand touched my arm. “I don’t need you to pretend to care about me or my problems. Okay?”
“Jesus Christ, Luisa,” he cries out in frustration, jumping to his feet. “We’re standing on the side of the damn connector in rush hour. Let me help you.” Then, more softly, “I want to help you.”
