My mouth hanging open, I sort through a variety of responses, and I take long enough that her squint turns into a cheeky grin. Closing my mouth, I rub my jaw. “No,” I growl at last. “I don’t think feet are gross or anything, but they don’t turn me on. And I wouldn’t pay strange women on the internet for pictures of their feet even if they did. I’m honestly not sure if I should be more offended by the fact you think I would or on behalf of feet-pic buying perverts.”
She laughs, and I decide that I really like this version of her that gives me shit and laughs and leads the way to the mechanic’s office. Not that I didn’t like her last night, of course. But I really hated seeing her look so beaten.
I like knowing that her default is something like this, and that all she needed was someone to help her to find her way back here. And I really like that that someone is me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hailey
Jason followsme into the office, catching the door when I yank it open and holding it for me. Such a gentleman.
I’m still smiling from the look on his face when I asked him if he buys feet pictures online, but I’m managing to contain my laughter. The shock. The horror!
Exquisite.
I had a few guy friends I could joke around with like that when I was in college, but I’m not really close enough to anyone lately to have that kind of dynamic. After my last breakup, I realized that my boyfriend was also the center of my friend group. And when things didn’t work out between us—nothing dramatic, our schedules just didn’t allow us to spend enough time together for a relationship to work out—I realized that all my friends were actually his friends. Which wasn’t so obvious until then because several of us went to Lawrence together. At least at the start of the friend group. But over time, the performers landed jobs and moved away, the teachers moved to different school districts, and those of us who stuck arounddid a variety of gigs to string together enough money to make a living like me. And the friends who left were replaced by Paul’s coworkers and the guys he played with for gigs every once in a while. Since he tended to host the get-togethers and was the planner who made everything come together, it’s easy to see why they chose him.
It was a bit of a rude awakening to realize that if I wanted to maintain friendships, I had to be the one to put in the effort. I had no practice doing that and didn’t know where to start. Between school and dating Paul, all my relationships happened with little effort on my part. And then they all fell away. I’ve tried to make more of an effort to get to know some of the other musicians in the orchestra, but we’re mostly gigging pals, not chat-all-the-time and hang out pals.
So my opportunities to give someone shit like this are few and far between these days.
I should be careful, though. I don’t want to scare Jason off when he’s the one footing my bills right now. But if he wants to offer to pay me to hang out with him, it can’t bethatsurprising that I’d say it sounds like I’m a paid escort in this scenario.
But if he wants to play out a G-rated version ofPretty Womanwith me, who am I to say no?
Though it’d probably be cheaper to send me on a shopping spree for clothes. I’d buy more concert black for sure. Mine are getting a little worse for wear at this point, the blacks not quite matching as well as they used to. The top is the worst. I need a new one. Something that won’t fade so easily.
I glance over my shoulder at Jason.
Nah. He’s already paying for a tow and the difference in rent plus some extra cash for not being able to work today. And he also said something about not worrying about the car at all, which I suspect means he intends to pay for the repairs, though I think that might be a little overkill. Either way, I can use theextra cash he gave me, go to the thrift store for their half-off day next week—assuming I have a working vehicle by then—and see if I can find something decent there.
“Hi!” I say brightly to the man behind the counter. He has a bushy gray beard, a baseball hat bearing the shop’s logo pulled low over his eyes, and he’s wearing navy blue coveralls with the name Earl embroidered on the chest. “My Pontiac Vibe was towed here last night.”
“Oh, right.” Earl shuffles some papers on the counter in front of him, then peers closely at one of them. “The tow truck driver left a note on the windshield, but it just said the car wouldn’t go.” He peers at me from under the brim of his hat. “I took the liberty of climbing in to see if it would start, and it did. But when I put it in gear, the engine just revved. That about what happened to you?”
I nod. “Exactly. It was driving okay?—”
“Define ‘okay,’” he interjects. “Has it ever acted like it didn’t want to change gears?”
Screwing up my face, I think over his question. I’m not super knowledgeable about cars. I know how to check the oil and add more if it’s low—my first car in high school had an oil leak, so I had to add more from time to time—and do the most basic things like check tire pressure and pump gas, but beyond that … I could probably jump my car, but I’d need to Google it to make sure I didn’t blow it up on accident instead.
“Uh … maybe?”
He gives me an indulgent look. “Did it shudder sometimes when you were accelerating? Or act like it wasn’t responding when you were pressing on the gas pedal?”
“Oh, well, now that you mention it. It’s been doing that for a while, but it always recovered pretty quickly. I guess I figured it would just be okay.” I make a sad little gesture with my hand.
Earl shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. “Yeah. So that was your transmission telling you it needed work.”
“Oh,” I say in a small voice.
“Yeah. Let me look it over and see what I can do. I’ll call you with an estimate. Is this a good number?” He shows me the form, and the number written down isn’t mine.
“No, my number is?—”
“Go ahead and call that number,” Jason cuts in from behind me.
I turn to look at him, my brows furrowed. I guess I knew he followed me in, but I kinda forgot about him while I was talking to Earl. “But it’s my car,” I say slowly.
