He leans down, then slowly extends his hand for the manual I’m grasping. The whizzing and whooshing of the highway grow faint as his gaze holds mine. He doesn’t take the booklet away. He waits instead for me to offer it. A beat of stillness passes between us, in which I remind myself that not everyone is my dad.
Not everyone fails to keep their promises.
Finally, I sigh and pass the manual to him. “Okay,” I say, standing to face him, then stepping back. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He nods but doesn’t smile. It’s his earnest expression, the one he uses on the rare occasion that he’s not deflecting or being sarcastic. It’s the same sincere expression that makes me want to trust him, in spite of what I know to be true. “Let me—” he says, taking my hand in his. The fight drains off me as I let him hold me, watching as he carefully cleans the grease off my fingers.
He slowly rubs into my palm with his thumb, standing so close that I can smell the sweet musk of his cologne, the tea tree oil essence in his shampoo. My legs weaken beneath me at the warmth of his scent, the gentleness of his touch, at the proximity of his solid form, the firm contour of his body. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would feel like to sink into his chest, to close my eyes and rest against his bare skin, to—for just this once—let myself go.
After all the grease is wiped clean, he slowly releases my hand. We stand still for a few seconds, neither of us certain of what to say or do next, both aware that we can’t stay like this for long.
Eli clears his throat and passes me the rag he’s been holding. “I’ll get us on the road in no time,” he says, bending to position the jack under the SUV, then presses a button. Within seconds, the tire is hovering a few inches from the ground.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been…” I shrug, struggling to find the right thing to say. “If I’ve been unkind to you.” Holly’s admonishment from a few days ago echoes in my mind. “I know it’s not an excuse, but I have a lot riding on this mad scheme.” I shake my head. I can’t seem to stop myself as I confess, “I lost my job because of the Castillos’ story—because of Griggs. I had to move back home with my mom, which is utterly humiliating on so many levels. And it may be all for nothing.” I stare down the infernal highway, letting out the breath I’ve been holding. “The Castillos may lose everything in the end.” Eli stops what he’s doing, turning his head to study my expression. I step closer, meeting his eyes. “And if I’mbeing totally honest,” I continue, “it scares the shit out of me to put our collective fate in the hands of someone who runs hustles for a living.” My voice goes quiet as I admit, “I’m not good at trusting people.” So quiet that I wonder if he even heard me.
He appraises me thoughtfully, a crease forming between his thick eyebrows. After a beat, he nods. “No need to apologize,” he says, turning back to the tire, huffing through the words as he forces the nuts loose. “Most people do terrible things with your trust.”
I watch him, wondering: How did he come about this hard-earned wisdom? Who let him down?
It takes him exactly ten minutes to change the tire, after which he insists on taking me to a quick lube shop where a friend owes him a favor.
I press the gas and ease back onto the highway. Then I hit play on the blues music station, where a Nina Simone track pops up. I ease back into the seat, anticipating the mellow effect of her husky voice, the soothing power of her melodies, but as the first notes of “Mississippi Goddam” stream into the SUV’s cabin, I can’t help but burst out laughing. Next to me, Eli chuckles to himself, his face breaking into the widest of grins.
He turns up the volume, our hands tapping, heads bobbing to the buoyant piano vamp and the incongruous cabaret beat framing the lyrics of these incendiary blues. This legendary song is Simone’s soulful cry against acts of violence and the oppression of Black communities in the segregated South. And as I think of the Castillos and every injustice still brutalizing our communities, my own “Mississippi Goddam” erupts from somewhere deep inside me. Eli joins the revelry until we’re practically screaming “Do it slow!” at the top of our lungs. I’m bent over the steering wheel, roaring hard. Eli nails a final “Mississippi Goddam” in that flowery Mississippi accent he’s been practicing all day.
“Goddam, that was good,” I bellow, punching him teasingly on the arm.
He laughs—a genuine laugh. When the song ends, the space between us feels lighter. My shoulders unwind against the snug backrest and my breathing calms.
“That was good,” he agrees, still chuckling as he lowers the volume. “We sound good together.”
For some godforsaken reason my mind attaches itself to the pronoun “we,” followed by the adverb “together.” The unexpected combination of the two sends my face into an all-out blush, mainly because he’s right. We do sound good together.
And maybe, even more than that, we make a good team. Over the time we’ve spent together, I’ve confirmed what I already knew on some level: Eli is bright and resourceful. He’s internalized our insane scheme and built on our ideas. And along the way, he’s also asserted himself, pushing back when he thinks something’s not right. It’s certainly been annoying at times, but if I’m honest, the man is slowly earning my respect.
If I weren’t so worried about staying fair-minded, I might admit that I like him.
I clear my throat, scrambling to find a dark mental closet where I can shove my thoughts, reminding myself how little I know about this man and the reasons he chose to take this job.
I tap on the screen of my phone until I find a different song—something that doesn’t feel so intimate. In the end, I just turn the radio off, and we fade into a more comfortable silence than before.
“So, what’s your deal?” I ask a few minutes later.
“What do you mean, what’s my deal?” He chuckles to himself, amused by the question.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “We’ve been spending all this time preparing for this thing, but we know nothing about you.”
“Trust me,” he says, “you know plenty.”
“Why did you move so much as a kid?” I ask instead. The question has been nagging me all week, poking at the raw corners of my mind.
Eli stares out the window, his expression quickly shifting from carefree to brooding. I keep my eyes focused on the road, both hands on the steering wheel, giving him space.
“You can only run so many hustles in one place before you have to skip town,” he finally says.
Not exactly what I was expecting to hear. Was Eli running hustles as a kid? And if so, where the hell were his parents?
“What do you mean?” I ask, slowing down slightly, not quite ready to arrive at our destination.
