by Lisa Sorbe
I tap my fingers on the sheet. “A list of everything that’s wrong with this place.”
“Really.”
Miles swipes the paper from under my fingertips and studies it. Knits his brows together. “Well, I’m all for number twelve.” He looks at me, eyes glittering. “What do you say?”
By the time we’ve finished half a pitcher of cheap beer (that’s surprisingly good), we’re on number forty-two. “A refreshment station,” I say, taking another sip from my glass and moving to write my idea down.
Miles snatches the paper away, and my pen slides along the table, leaving a purple ink smear. We’re back at Bert’s Bar – the scene of my disastrous double-date with Victoria – and even though this place is a dive, I lick my thumb and rub the mark so it doesn’t stick.
“A refreshment station?” He shakes his head. “I’m not running a high-end salon here, Princess.” He pushes the sheet back to me, and I place my palm over it protectively. Somewhere between starting this list and now, I’ve become invested in it.
I arch a brow. “Yet you’re all for a bidet in the restroom?”
Miles leans back in his seat and laces his fingers behind his head. “Well,” he says, a shit-eating grin on his face, “a bathroom is a man’s throne room.”
I pretend to gag. “That’s disgusting.”
“What’s disgusting is how much money you want me to shell out for all these so-called improvements.” He grabs the pitcher and holds it up, silently asking if I’d like a refill.
I nod and push my glass toward the middle of the table. “It’s really not that much. Not if you get creative. You’ve got to invest money to make money.” I pull it back and take a sip. “Besides, you made the most important investment already.”
“Oh, yeah?” He cocks his head. “What’s that?”
“Me.”
Miles laughs. “The jury’s still out on that one. Besides,” he says, refilling his glass, “why do you even care?”
I fiddle with the cap on the pen before pressing it to the paper and doodling small 3D boxes. “Honestly, I have no idea. If someone told me yesterday that today I’d be sitting here with you and discussing the future of an auto repair shop, I would have laughed.” I draw the final side on my last box, look up at Miles, and shrug. “I guess it’s fun to take something old and make it new. Sort of like a makeover, only on a business instead of a person. Plus, it’s nice to have something to care about for a change.” That last part just slipped out, and I’m ashamed to realize it’s the truth.
Miles doesn’t answer. Just considers what I said, his face blank. He’s clean, thanks to the shower in the studio apartment above his garage, and dressed simply in a black t-shirt and jeans. His boots are old, the worn leather so soft and aged it practically molds to his feet. His tan is deeper than it was the last time I saw him, and I find myself wondering how he got it.
In fact, I suddenly find myself wondering all sorts of things about him.
“Or,” I say, moving to crumble the paper, “we don’t have to do anything on this list. Keep everything the same. It seemed to work for the previous owner, right?” Miles mentioned briefly that he started working for the previous owner, Bob Eckert, right out of high school. And that, even though there’d been multiple offers (on the property, not the shop), he chose to “keep it in the family” by selling it to Miles in what, from what I understand, was one hell of a deal.
Miles slaps his hand over mine. He palm is rough, and it reminds me of the way Julian’s hands felt – all coarse and calloused and scratchy from hours and hours of hard labor. Goosebumps fleck my arms and my cheeks flush.
Thankfully, Miles doesn’t seem to notice. Just slips the paper out from under my hand and smooths it back down. “No,” he says, his eyes moving over the words. “No, I think…” He pauses, sighs. Raises his eyes to meet mine. “I think some change might be good.”
I can’t help the smug smile that spreads across my face. “All right, then.” I pluck the list from his fingers and fold it neatly before slipping it into my purse. “I think we have enough to start with. Tomorrow is going to be busy.”
“Tomorrow,” Miles says, “is going to be a half day.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because it’s Friday.”
I lift my brows. “And?”
“Aside from the fact that no one should ever work a full day on a Friday, in the summer Fridays mean softball.”
I lean back in my seat and cross my arms. “So,” I say, “let me get this straight. You leave work early every Friday so you can play a game?”
Miles pretends to act offended. “Hey, it’s not just a game. It’s serious business. Plus,” he adds, “it’s my first year sponsoring the team. Wright Auto Repair, formerly known as Eckert Auto Repair, is taking the trophy home this year.” His eyes sort of glaze over as he stares off into space. “It’ll look great sitting on the counter…”
I snort. “Whatever. That thing will be a total eyesore. And Wright Auto Repair has one employee. Or, er, two,” I quickly amend. “Who all plays on your team?”
Miles drains the last of his beer. “Friends. Good friends. We’ve been playing together for years.”
“Hmm…” I’m about to ask about them when my phone buzzes. I flip my it over and notice a text from my mom. I frown when I read the message.
Miles leans forward. “Everything okay?”
“No. Yeah.” I shake my head. I feel strange. For some reason, this text unnerves me. “Everything’s fine. My mom… She’s not feeling well and just asked me if I could pick up Emilia from the sitter’s.” I find her number in my contacts and hit send, unable to shake the dread that’s suddenly squeezing my chest. She’s been acting so odd lately. “But Emilia isn’t at the sitter’s. She’s with my mom today. Or supposed to be…” I press the phone to my ear and my free hand over my other, blocking out the bar noise.
“Hello?”
“Mom?” Is it just my imagination or does her voice sound off? Her text said she had a migraine, so that’s probably it. But still… “I just got your text. I thought Emilia was with you today?”
Static bleeds through the phone, each second seeming to draw out longer than the other. “Oh. What?” She laughs, starting to sound like herself again. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m so sorry to have bothered you, dear. I laid down so I could get rid of this migraine and completely conked out. I slept so hard I forgot what day it was when I woke up. Imagine!”
“So Emilia’s not at Mary Jo’s?”
“No, no. She’s with your dad. Now that I’m fully awake, I remember they mentioned going out for dinner and a movie so I could get some rest. I think they’re going to that new show about the ballerina. You know, the one she’s been begging to see?” She chuckles. “Anyway, don’t mind me. What’ve you been up to today?”
I glance at Miles, who’s thumbing away a text on his own phone. “Nothing. I mean, well… I got a job.”
And my mom reacts exactly the way I expected her to. “What?! Jennifer Anne! Tell me all about it! Everything! Where is it? Doing what?”
She’s firing questions so fast I don’t have a chance to answer. Miles looks up from his phone, an amused expression on his face. No doubt my mom’s exuberance can be heard halfway across the room. “I’ll fill you in later. I’m actually sitting here with my boss,” – I smirk at Miles, and he flips me off – “so I really should go. As long as you’re all right,” I add quickly. Which, after the words leave my lips, I realize is very unlike me.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. You just get back to work and tell me about it when you get home. I’m so proud of you, honey!” Her voice is so loud my hand acts on reflex and pulls the phone away from my ear.
Miles’s lips kick up at that, and I roll my eyes and pretend to be annoyed. But when I say good-bye and end the call, I realize that deep down I feel… happy.
Shit. I haven’t felt happy – honest-to-goodness-fucking happy – in years. In fact, I can’t rememb
er the last time I didn’t feel like a bitter, pissed off wench.
But then my stomach sinks. Because happy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
It’s downright dangerous.
Miles nods at my phone. “So your mom’s pretty happy about our little arrangement, I take it?”
I bite back a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. You know, my parents will probably send you a bottle of their finest just for hiring me. They’ve been trying…”
Miles’s phone rings, and I trail off. When he looks at it, his face reddens. “Do you mind?” he asks. I shake my head and instead pull my drink to my lips, taking a sip. His expression is filled with apology, but when he answers, his voice is smooth as butter. “Hey, George.”
Ah. George.
“Yeah, no. I don’t mind.” He slants his body away from me, lowering his voice. “I’m hungry, too. Cool. See ya in a few, then.”
I pretend to study my nails while I listen. And when he apologizes and says he has to go, I’m surprised to feel the heavy weight of disappointment in my chest. Right where my heart would be if I had one.
I didn’t realize I was enjoying myself so much, sitting here with him in this grimy little bar.
Bert’s Bar is just a block away from the shop, and as we walk back in the stifling humidity, Miles and I discuss my hours and rate of pay. It’s not much but, then again, I’m not doing this for the money.
We part ways when we get to our vehicles, and as I watch him drive away, I find myself envying George. Not so much because of Miles – although, granted, he’s not as awful as I initially pegged him to be– but because this George person has a date. Has someone that is willing to drop everything and come running.
For the first time in a long time, I can’t swallow back the lump of loneliness that’s creeping up my throat. I lean my forehead on my steering wheel and take a deep breath. Then another. And another…
Deep belly breaths – in through my nose, down to the very pit of my stomach, and back out through my mouth. I picture a gray mist pouring in and billowing throughout my body, anesthetizing everything – my muscles, my nerves, the sensitive area right in the middle of my chest. Numbing everything up.
And slowly, I’m able to shake the emotions that were threatening to shake me.
By the time I get home, I have a text from Miles.
How are you at softball?
Julian and I got married in Vegas on a whim. It wasn’t the traditional white wedding with a three-tiered cake I’d envisioned growing up, but as long as I had Julian at the alter with me, I didn’t mind. An ordained Elvis impersonator listened as we recited our vows, pronouncing us “husband and wife” and closing the service with an enthusiastic uh-huh and a crude thrust of his pelvis.
Julian thought the crassness of the ceremony was appropriate. He’d always told me he didn’t believe in marriage, that no one should be bound by something as flimsy as a piece of paper. “One person owning another person… It’s all bullshit,” he’d sneer whenever anyone brought it up, insisting the whole idea of matrimony was utterly degrading. To him, the only reason people got married in the first place was because they were desperately insecure in their relationships. That, and it was just another way society tried to coerce the masses into conformity. And he had no intention of conforming. Ever.
And I loved the fact he wouldn’t conform. I loved his passion and jumped right on his bandwagon, looking down my nose at those of my friends who were moving to the burbs and tying the knot. I’d come to terms with the fact Julian and I would never have the sort of traditional relationship most couples had – we were never going to get married, have children, buy a house in the suburbs and grow old sitting side-by-side on some creaky porch swing while holding hands and talking about the good old days. But what we had instead was better – lazy days and wild nights filled with art and passion and excitement and sex so intense I felt like I was being turned inside out.
All of this while Julian was building the sort of image that carried us to heights neither he nor I could have ever imagined.
I was so addicted to him that, at the time, I’d take him any way I could get him – ring or no ring. And while we didn’t have what normal couples had, it was my belief that what we had was significantly better. We were unique, sophisticated. We made our own rules. He was mine and I was his.
Fuck that piece of paper.
At least, that was the lie I told myself.
So when he slipped a cold platinum ring on my finger one night while we were lying in bed, I thought he was joking. In fact, I actually laughed. But when he pulled me closed, tucked his forehead into the soft spot where my neck meets my shoulder and said, “I want you to own me, because I desperately need to own you,” I realized he was serious.
And I realized how much I wanted to be a wife. His wife.
I wanted the cookie cutter marriage my parents had. The house with the porch swing and beautiful children running around. The passing of the years spent making memory after memory after memory, growing our relationship from the small seed it started out to be into something so magnificent we’d outlast time.
Julian had no intention of waiting; he wanted to do it right away. And privately. He said he didn’t want me parading down the aisle of some church in front of all of our friends and family like some prized steer he’d won. He said I deserved better.
So when he suggested flying to Vegas and getting married the next day, I didn’t care. I didn’t stop to consider the contradiction between his words and the crassness of our ceremony. Nor did I take the time to ponder his sudden change of attitude toward marriage.
Julian Kinraid wanted to marry me, and that was all that mattered.
I was happy. So happy as we hopped out of bed, packed our bags, and headed for the airport. Julian’s step was light; I’d never seen him so carefree. The brooding intensity was gone from his eyes, his face relaxed into a rare expression of contentment. And after we got settled into our first-class seats, we splurged on a bottle of champagne and toasted our future.
It was all a whirlwind. But that’s what life was like with Julian. And I’d been with him for so long that our breakneck pace had become normal.
Those first four days after our wedding though, when we refused to leave our hotel suite and ate every meal naked in bed, were slow. Slow and lazy, where time stood still and reality seemed like a distant memory. I remember calling down for room service one morning, starving after a long night of lovemaking, and hearing the concierge call me Mrs. Kinraid. I’d never, in all of my life, felt the sort of happiness I did at hearing those words.
I was high on my addiction.
Unfortunately, the real bitch of it is this: when you crash from such heights, there’s always a part of you that doesn’t survive.
My scream cuts over the 80’s big hair ballad crooning through the shop’s speakers.
Everything happens in slow motion as I turn, trip on my feet, land on my knees, and crawl-skitter to safety.
It’s my first official day on the job, and even thought it’s Friday and only a half day, I already want to quit.
Miles rushes in, bursting through the shop door like something’s on fire. Or someone’s being murdered.
That someone would be me.
And I practically was.
“What the hell –”
Miles searches the room, eyes wide and clutching a gigantic wrench. When he sees me, his brows knit together in concern. “What’s wrong?” He slowly lowers the tool, but his shoulders remain stiff and he looks ready to spring.
I scurry up onto the counter, pull my knees to my chin, and wrap my arms around my legs. My insides are quivering like a cold bowl of jello, although my shudders are filled more with disgust than fear. I lift a hand and wave the rag I’d been dusting with toward one of the lower shelves tacked to the wall. “There’s something in there. Like a rat or racoon or… Ugh. I don’t know. Something. All I saw was a blur with teeth and these creepy eyes. And it
hissed, too. So maybe it’s a snake?” Blech. My stomach rolls at the thought of skinny little serpents slithering through the shelves, the floors, behind the walls. I’d take a rat over that any day. I tense as Miles moves to investigate. “Did you know this place has an infestation? There’s no fucking way I’m coming back here until –”
But I pause because I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Miles is setting down the wrench – why the hell is he setting down the weapon, for crying out loud? – and smiling. And then… Oh, Lord. Please tell me he’s not… I hold my hand up to my eyes and squint between my fingers. Yep, he is. The dumbass squats down and reaches into the shelf, his voice rising several octaves as he coos to the damn thing.
I grimace and pull my knees tighter into my chest, leaning away. “Are you insane? Don’t… Oh, my god – don’t touch it!”
But Miles has already pulled the thing out from the shelf and is now cradling it in his arms. He’s still talking in that deplorable high-pitched voice, blabbering to it like it’s a freaking baby or something. When he takes a step toward me, I shake my head and hold a palm up. “Uh-uh. Get that thing away –”
And that’s when I see what it is.
“– from me.”
It’s a cat. A tiny black cat with sleek fur and big, almond-shaped eyes the color of the sky.
“It’s just Lucy,” he says, scratching the cat behind it’s ears. Lucy squints, wrapping a delicate paw around his wrist and tilting her head into his touch. Her purr reminds me of a dove’s warble, and I can hear her rumble of contentment from where I’m standing.
“Oh.” I detangle myself, stretching my legs and carefully sliding down from the counter. My ankle twinges a little when I put weight on it, and I draw in a sharp breath. I roll it back and forth, the pain ebbing, and keep my eyes on the feline coiled up in Miles’s arms.
As if she can sense my stare, she opens her eyes, turns her head my way, and hisses.
