Of course Otto didn’t drive off without a backward glance. Of course he’s here, witnessing another humiliating moment.
“No.”
He stops beside me, bare arm brushing mine as he leans over the engine. The brief, innocent touch burns. I stare at the spot, surprised there’s no visible scorch mark on my skin.
“Have you had problems before?”
“No. I mean, yes, it’s an old car. I’ve had to bring it in for repairs before. But nothing recent. It’s never not started before, just made weird sounds.”
He says nothing, appraising the mess of gears and wires and tubes with the easy nonchalance of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. I’m not sure if he does or doesn’t. As far as I know, his vehicular knowledge only extends to the fast, expensive variety. My ancient sedan is neither.
I gnaw on my thumbnail nervously, waiting for him to say something.
“You need a tow truck,” Otto tells me a couple of minutes later.
My heart sinks. “Oh.”
A tow truck means a serious issue. And likely an expensive one.
“I think it is the timing belt. You will need a new one.”
“Are they exp—will a new timing belt cost a lot?”
Otto studies me. He must be aware of the massive discrepancies in our salaries, but I feel like I revealed too much, asking that.
“It should not be that much,” he answers. “For the part and labor”—he thinks—“less than a thousand?”
I exhale. That’s not great. Not terrible.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“You might want to consider… Other parts of the engine have problems too. Replacing the car would make the most sense.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I’m not sure I can afford to buy a new car right now. I haven’t seen Mom’s royalties for this quarter yet. I haven’t decided if I’ll retire after this season—or what I’ll do with my business degree if I stop playing. Dipping into the safety net of my savings doesn’t seem like the savviest financial move.
Otto pulls out his phone, types something, and then raises it to his ear. I don’t comprehend why until he relays the address of the Siege’s practice facility and starts talking about timing belts.
In relationships, in friendships, with family, I’m almost always the one to take charge. It’s unsettling, though not in an unpleasant way, to watch someone else manage everything. To fix a problem before I can.
Otto hangs up a few minutes later. “The truck will be here soon.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
He nods, walking back toward his SUV.
I send a flurry of panicked texts to Cassidy, letting her know what’s going on. I even call my dad’s office directly—something I haven’t done since before the divorce—and talk to a perky receptionist who tells me my sister is in a meeting. I don’t have a number for the sitter Cassidy hired, and today is her day off anyhow. I try to reach Lydia, but she doesn’t answer either. The tow truck arrives while I’m listening to her cheerful voicemail.
I hang up, watching Otto shake hands with the overall-wearing middle-aged man whose name patch readsWally.
Wally is efficient, loading my car quickly. All I have to contribute is filling out a form and handing him the key. I also pull the booster seat out of the sedan’s back seat since it’s looking increasingly likely I’ll have to pick Tommy up in an Uber.
Cassidy hasn’t called me back by the time the tow truck pulls out of the parking lot. And Otto is still here.
“I can give you a ride,” he says.
Immediate déjà vu.
