by Piper Lennox
The car, even if it wasn’t hers, was just one more thing Easton had that I didn’t. And I hated her for it.
When I see that ruby in the middle of Barkley Automotive, I think about that day for the first time in over a decade. I still have Easton’s plastic compass, somewhere. I never gave it back.
“Ford fucking McLean, look at you.”
I turn and smile before realizing I might not have the right to smile: I’m sure Tan has a few choice words he could say to me. But he wipes his hand on a rag and shakes mine, offering some small talk, so I let myself relax. Civility is better than nothing.
“Bram said you were back in town, like, three months ago. I didn’t believe him until I saw the article.”
“Article?” I repeat, before the realization hits me like a brick to the temple: the accident. Of course. It’s the first thing anyone says to me, nowadays. “Oh, right. In the Times.”
“Staying in town?”
“For now.” I hold out the keys to Dad’s truck. “Just needs an inspection, if you have time.”
He studies me a second before wetting his lips, nodding, and taking them. “Yeah. I got some time.”
I thank him and head for the waiting room. Through the glass, I see him pick up a folding chair and carry it out the bay door. I’m guessing it’s for Easton, who ducked outside at the exact second I walked in.
Last night, while Caroline slept, I sat in the padded lounge chair beside her bed and let myself get mired in Memory Lane, the last place I wanted to be. Easton removed any trace of me from her social media profiles, but I still had the photos. Six years, five new phones: I still had them, synced to my email so they’d never be lost.
One of my favorites was that night at Bram’s house when we were fourteen. Easton found me in the kitchen, after all my friends ditched me to dance with their crushes.
We had a weird alliance by then, almost friendship, and I like to think that’s what the picture Bram snapped of us captured: we’re both half-smiling, shy, looking at the camera like we’ve been interrupted. Like until that moment, we forgot we weren’t the only people there.
When I got to the later pictures, ones from right before I left, I had to stop. It hurt too much, remembering just how badly I fucked everything up.
Somehow, I managed to sleep. I dreamed about that kiss over and over, until the shift change woke me, and Dad called with a list of errands.
Speak of the devil: I jolt to the present again as my phone buzzes from my pocket.
“Hey, Dad. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He hesitates. “I was wondering if you, uh...if you planned on going back to the hospital, later?”
I check my watch. Caroline’s doctor wants to keep them another night, ostensibly because Bentley can’t be circumcised until the morning. I’m convinced it’s just to get more insurance money. After all, he missed out on those labor and delivery charges.
“Yeah. Caroline wants me to pick up her laptop, first. They aren’t releasing her until tomorrow.” I pause. “Did you...want to visit her?”
“It would be nice to see the baby in person, now that I’m feeling better. But if you’re staying the night, I guess it wouldn’t make much sense.”
“I can take you up there after dinner. I don’t mind.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Dad. It’s your first grandchild. I know you’re dying to see him as soon as possible.”
Oof. Not the best word choice. Thankfully, though, he sounds fine. “All right. If you’re okay making the trip twice, I mean.”
“It’s no problem. As soon as I get the inspection finished, I’ll call Caroline and see when she wants us to come by. Sound good?”
Dad thanks me inside another apology, like he’s scared of putting me out. I’m still not used to that: how sorry he sounds, all the time, even though he’s never actually said it.
“Passed,” Tanner announces, when he pushes through the door and tosses me the keys. “You could use a new air filter, but I figured your old man would rather take care of that himself.” He pauses. “How’s he doing, by the way?”
“Better, I think. Being a grandpa will probably get him a second wind.”
“Caroline had her baby, huh?” Tanner grins, shaking his head as he rips the receipt off the pad and slides it to me. “Man, I still think of her as a kid.”
“She is a kid—barely sixteen.”
He spins the pen between his fingers, face getting serious. “Is she doing all right?”
I know exactly what he means: is she doing all right, without Bennett? I’d call it instinct, if it weren’t just how things work around here. News travels so fast, there’s no such thing as an innocent question. Everything has hidden meaning.
“As good as she can, I guess.” There’s hidden meaning here, too: “As good as can be expected” almost always means “Very shittily, but hey, that’s life.”
“Good seeing you,” he says, and seems to mean it. We slap hands this time instead of shaking. It makes me feel a little better. I wouldn’t call it water under the bridge, but if the last few years—especially the last three months—have taught me anything, it’s to be grateful for whatever consolation prize the world decides to give you.
Like the sight of Easton in her little shorts, bent over the bumper of that ruby red Chevy on the side of the road.
I make a U-turn. She glances at me, shuts her eyes, and slouches.
“Need some help?”
“No. It’s fine.”
I look inside. “What’s it doing?”
“It’s—” She stops herself and cuts a hard look at me, suddenly remembering she’s supposed to give me the Ice Queen routine.
Then, slowly, she realizes she doesn’t have much of a choice.
“It’s rattling. Not super loud, but something’s definitely wrong. And I thought I felt it shaking, but I freaked out and pulled over before I could tell.”
“Go start it for me, let me hear.”
There’s the face again, like I’m the most insufferable bastard on the planet. I know we’ve got our history, but come on. I’m trying.
She slides behind the wheel and turns the key.
“Yeah,” I shout, “it’s rough.”
Her sigh drags the length of the car as she cuts it and walks back to me, waiting for the verdict.
“Needs a spark plug. Maybe new wires.”
“It does not. I just came from Barkley, Tanner would’ve told me if something was about to go wrong.”
“First of all,” I tell her, waving a herd of gnats from my face, “Tanner isn’t a mechanic, remember? I mean, he is, but not really: he’s a carpenter. The garage is just his side gig.”
“Well, he’s been doing his ‘side gig’ for seven years, so I’d say he’s picked up a few things.” She winds her hair into a bun. “And yes, I remember. I’ve seen Tanner just about every week since high school.”
I hide the wince that darts through my body. She deserves some cheap shots.
“Second, it’s an easy fix. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. And I don’t need your help.” She waves me out of the way and stares at the engine, hands on her hips.
I stroll around to the rear bumper, admiring the car up-close for the first time since that day I snuck inside as a kid. The interior’s exactly like my memory.
“Man, that sucks.” When she looks at me, I add, “Your grandma finally lets somebody else drive this thing, and it fucks up.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“No. I’m saying your grandma will say that. You were unlucky enough to be the one driving when the problem showed itself, so she’ll assume you caused it. Am I wrong?”
Easton’s mouth snaps shut as she considers this. After a beat, she deflates. “Shit.”
“I can fix it. Just drive to my place.”
Easton squints down the road. “Where’s your place?”
“Same as always: righ
t next to yours. Well, your folks’ place.” I shut the hood for her. “I live over the garage. Caroline claimed my old room as a nursery.”
“I haven’t seen either of you there, when I’ve gone to visit my parents.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“No, just….” She snaps a hair tie on her wrist. “Were you avoiding me?”
“That’s what you would’ve wanted me to do, isn’t it?”
Easton wipes the sweat from her brow and, hesitantly, nods.
As she follows me to the driver’s side, I think about holding the door for her. Don’t push your luck.
“You’re sure you can fix it? Because I’d rather just take it back to Barkley, if you can’t.”
“Go ahead. If you want to take the chance on them not having the plug you need on hand, by all means, go back to Barkley.”
“Oh, and you do have it on hand?”
“Matter of fact, I do.” I narrow my eyes at her eye roll. “If you’ll remember, I worked on my aunt’s old Corvette just about every weekend, junior year. Same plug.”
Easton pushes the hair from her face. She looks stressed. Probably imagining all the ways an old woman can whoop somebody with a pocketbook.
“I can fix it fast. Your grandma won’t even know.”
Finally: something to relax the steel rod of her spine. She curses under her breath again, but nods and slides back into the seat as I pass, rapping my knuckles on the roof. She even thanks me.
At least it’s something.
“Holy shit.”
Ford barely looks up as I circle the mangled bumper on the other side of the garage. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty bad.”
“What happened to it?” As shocked as I was to learn his old truck lasted all these years, I’m even more shocked to see what little remains of it now.
“Accident,” he says, after a long silence. The entire time, he keeps his head ducked under the Chevy’s hood. “I’m guessing you heard about it. That big crash on Lucerne, back in March. Got us good. Dad wanted me to get the plate off before I scrap the bumper.” Another pause. “I should’ve just left the fucking thing in the ditch with the rest of it.”
I touch the scuffed and dented metal, but have to pull my hand away. Too much.
“I, uh...I didn’t know you were in that accident.”
Ford glances at me again as I approach, folding my arms across my chest in the dusted chill of the garage. I used to watch him help his dad out here sometimes. It never ended well.
“Lot of people were in it,” he shrugs. “I got lucky, just a few stitches in my forehead.” He points to the scar I wish I could say I didn’t immediately notice in the ferry terminal.
“Skye Michaels broke her leg in that crash, I think.”
“Really? Didn’t know she was back in Hillford, too.”
“Yep. Tanner’s not too happy about that, from what I hear.”
Ford mops his face with his shirt. I turn away when I see the flash of his abs, shadows in all the right places. “I guess you and Tan have a lot to talk about, then. Old flames moving back into town must really piss y’all off.”
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not, so I err on the side of snark. “You have to admit,” I say slowly, leaning my forearms on the edge of a worktable, “it isn’t all that fair. People like Tanner and me, we build our lives here—then people like you or Skye just waltz back in like nothing happened.”
“I never said nothing happened. If that’s how I saw things, I wouldn’t have apologized.” Ford slams the flashlight down on the table, right in front of me, and grabs a cigarette pack from a shelf. After he stalks outside, I decide to follow.
“Don’t worry about me barging in and ruining your life, Easy,” he sneers, when I appear around the side of the garage. The cigarette bobs between his lips as he speaks. “I’m out of here as soon as shit settles.”
I watch him take the first drag and exhale. It’s another thing that transports me, makes me feel like I’m time-traveling back to high school: the scent of Newports beside this old garage.
“Ford?”
Both of us start and look around the corner at the back of his house. I squint through the sunlight and almost gasp when I realize the withered wisp of a man, calling across the yard, is Reese McLean.
Ford notices. He gives me a long, sideways stare as he steps forward and ashes his cigarette. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Just wondered if you were back yet. I talked to Caroline, she said after six is good. You want me to cook dinner?”
“No, I’ll handle that. You go rest.”
Reese waves his hand at him, but even from here, I can tell resting is about all the man should do.
After the door closes, I let out the breath I was holding. Ford stomps out his cigarette and motions for me to follow him back into the garage.
I don’t know how to ask, but he must read the question across my face like a news ticker. “He’s dying,” he says simply, going under the hood again. “Liver failure. All the drinking finally caught up to him.”
I’m grateful he answered before I had to ask, but I still don’t know what to say. After a silence, I manage, “How long does he have?”
“Could be six months, give or take. It’s not responding to chemo like they hoped.”
My throat feels swollen shut. “Six months? That’s it?”
“Would’ve been a hell of a lot longer if he’d quit drinking when they warned him he had cirrhosis, but he didn’t. So now he’s got hep...shit, what is it? Hepato...fuck, whatever. Cancer.” Ford backs up, hands clasped behind his head as he assesses his work, and I have to look away again. The pain locked into his stance, stoic and still, brings back too many memories.
“I’m sorry.”
My whispered words flood the garage. Ford looks at me again.
“Thank you.”
“Is that the real reason you came back? To see him, before....”
“Part of it. You didn’t know he was sick?”
“Your family’s been under the radar since you left. I didn’t know Caroline was pregnant, either. I hadn’t seen her at all.”
“She was still living with our aunt,” he explains, “but yeah, I could see that. The flying-under-the-radar thing. We’re good at that.”
Despite myself, I laugh, the sound little more than a snort under my breath. “I wish I was. Hillford knows every little move I make.”
He nods slowly, deeply, like this is a truth he’s been preaching for years, but that no one’s really listened to.
“It’s not always for the best,” he says, a moment later. When I look at him, he bites the corner of his mouth and adds, “Keeping everything to yourself, I mean.”
“Yeah. Causes its own kind of problems.” I watch him pretend to adjust something in the engine, eyes straying farther from mine the closer I get, until I’m leaning under the hood beside him, and he has no choice.
Six
“Keep these curtains closed.” Daddy yanked the drapes back to the center of my bedroom window. They were new: thick flannel, navy, red and cream, the same colors as the décor around our house my mother called Americana.
I hated the curtains. My old ones were sheer white, billowing like mist when the wind swelled into the room at night. The flannel ones barely moved, limp and heavy like slabs of meat.
“It’s too hot when they’re closed,” I argued.
“Turn on a fan.”
“The fan doesn’t help. Why can’t I just go back to the old ones?”
“The old ones,” he said, pushing his glasses up into his hair while he examined the curtain rod, “were see-through. You’ll have more privacy, this way.”
“It’s hot,” I said again, but I knew it was pointless. My mother had already given me a Serious Talk at the kitchen table about this issue: now that I was a young woman, complete with a box of tampons under the sink and a training bra in my bureau (both of which I was mortified to own, much less use), it was “inappropriate” a
nd “borrowing trouble” to keep my window wide-open the way I did.
“Ford isn’t gonna look at me. He hates me.” I fell into my pillows and stuffed animals, one of my teddy bears flopping onto my face. Maybe that was part of the reason I didn’t feel like a “young woman” yet, no matter what was happening to my body: teddy bears and dolls, pale pink and green paint, wicker furniture, and lacy-edged pillows didn’t exactly scream “teenager.”
“And I hate him,” I added, throwing the teddy bear off my face to glare at my father again. “It’s not fair that I have to change my room because a boy lives next door.”
“Your mother and I are discussing the options,” he said calmly. He was always calmer than my mom about these kinds of things.
“The guest bedroom?”
“You know we don’t want you on a separate floor from us, this young.”
Young. God, I hated that word. They said all that crap about being a young lady when they wanted maturity, but treated me like a young child when I tried to get out from under their thumbs. “Young,” I’d realized, was just a qualifier adults switched up for their convenience.
“Reese can—” I started, but corrected myself before Dad could freak: “Mr. McLean can switch Caroline and Ford’s rooms.”
“That’s his decision. We can’t ask him to undertake something that big when a new pair of curtains costs us ten minutes and a few bucks.”
“But—”
“Easton.” His voice crystalized. I shut up.
After he left, I made sure to shut my door harder than necessary, but not enough to classify as a slam. Now that I was a young lady, my mom’s old standby of a wooden spoon on the back of my legs was a thing of the past, and I wasn’t eager to learn what would replace it.
The heat was suffocating. I shoved the flannel to other side of the window and slid it open, one millimeter at a time, praying my parents wouldn’t hear the rattle of the glass in its frame.
As soon as I got it open, the night sent me a breeze and I drank it up like water.
Our neighborhood was really beautiful, after sundown. If I ignored the eyesore that was Ford’s bedroom, I could peek past the roof and see our other neighbors’ homes, lit up down the street like a ribbon of stars. If I leaned out far enough and looked up, I could see the real ones.
