Chapter One
Fox
I’ve watched you patiently from the car lot where I sit. I’ve learned the rhythm of your routine. You drive down the same road, at the same time, day after day. You make the same hesitant turn of your head each time.
At first, you only stole glances. Quick ones. Guilty ones. As if wanting me was a sin you hoped no one, not even yourself, would recognize. Your eyes would flick toward me and away again, your hands tightening on the wheel of that sensible family car you drive, while pretending you hadn’t felt that ache of longing. Pretending you didn’t know what burned hot in the deep pit of your stomach.
Gradually, the glances grew braver. Longer. You slowed just a little as you passed. Enough for me to feel your warmth. Enough for you to imagine what it would be like if you didn’t keep going. You’d look at my lines, my stance, the way my headlights reflected the cold morning light. I knew you were picturing yourself behind my wheel, rather than boxed in by the practicality of a minivan.
I had no qualm with her, but the Honda Odyssey wasnever where you were meant to be. You knew it. I knew it. She was a high-safety-rating box with child locks and multiple cup holders. Economical and hard working, the wife in a marriage of convenience, but not the passionate love affair you craved. No, you belonged in three thousand pounds of pure American muscle, riding the rumble of a motor that purred your name like a prayer. You didn’t need space in the back for groceries or baby seats filled with obligations. You needed me, a full tank, and a freeway with no destination.
Still, you refused to accept it. You drove on, day after day.
Until one fortunate Tuesday, when everything changed.
I felt you before I saw you. Your footsteps slowed. The air shifted. And then, your hands. Warm. Careful. A gentle, longing caress over my hood. Your fingers traced the tarnished Ford emblem, and for one perfect moment, the world narrowed to just us.
I looked up, holding my breath, worried I might spook you if I leaned into you too readily. This is the first time I get to admire you back, and I’m thrilled to see that we match. You wear black, just like me: a long coat, dark pants, the same black as my factory-original paint job. The silver buttons on your jacket match my chrome. I follow the ink in your bronze skin, from your fingers, up to the wrist where they disappeared under your sleeves. I knew you had more; some peeked from your collar, three dark bands framing your neck. I ached to see the rest, longing to explore you.
My gaze shifted to your face, to your full lips decorated with snake bites. Your strong jawline is cleanly shaven. I paused at your eyes as they studied me back, gray eyes with golden flecks of light. You must have felt me watching, because you frowned, running your hand over your dark, tied-up hair.
Then just like that, you pulled back; you glanced at your phone and hurried away.
What was so important that you cut our first moment together short? The red-faced dealer hadn’t even had achance to get up from his desk to try to sell me. He had a rehearsed speech ready and everything: “A collector’s piece!”, followed by a few sweet lies to inflate the price.
One touch, and you were gone.
But I knew that touch made you feel something, too. I knew you would be back.
Oh, at least I hoped so.
But you haven’t driven past me in weeks, now. The winter snow is melting, marking the passing of my first full year sitting in the lot, still waiting.
I’ve watched Mustangs come and go, one after another. They never stay long, never more than a few weeks. They were newer. Louder. More powerful. Their paint jobs gleamed, and so did the eyes of the potential buyers, buyers who circled them eagerly, exchanging cash for keys. Engines roared away.
But me?
I’m a 1992 Fox Body Ford Mustang GT. A divisive design, different from the classics. Not rare enough to be fought over, but uncommon enough to be expensive. My V8 engine is tempting to some, but I can feel the beginnings of rust nipping at my seams. My battery struggles too, barely holding enough charge to wake me from sleep. Some mornings, I wonder if this is it; if I try to start and fail, will I be another write off? Nothing but scrap metal, collected by the tow-truck at the order of a merciless insurance agent?
The thought fills me with fear, and I settle into restless sleep, trying to preserve my power.
The jingle of keys snapped me back from my slumber.
My keys. I knew them instantly, recognizing the distinct clink of metal against a plastic trinket from a fair, shaped like a fox. An animal one, that is, the paint mostly rubbed off its orange features now. My last owner had clipped it on after a first date, and had left it there when he traded me in for a Corvette.
A downgrade, if you ask me, but humans have strange tastes.
You were standing next to me, your hand on my roof, gently stroking a small fleck of missing paint as if soothing a fresh wound, as if you understood my pain.
“This is the one you want to test-drive?” The dealer asked.
Yes. Please.
Say yes.
“It is,” you agree.
That was the first time I’d heard your voice. Oh, it had a purr to it. Low and smooth, like a six-cylinder engine. The sound of it settled deep into my frame.
