Work Me Up

by Wylder, Penny

  I lose count of how many songs pass before we pull up to the garage. But suddenly, we’re there, and I survived, and the drive wasn’t all that bad after all. I still practically fling myself out of the passenger’s seat the instant we’re parked, but other than that, I’m pretty sure I got through the ordeal without giving too much away.

  “Betty’s back on the front blocks,” Antonio tells me, pointing toward the garage. “Her test drive went fine. So now we just need to put on the finishing touches, and she’ll be good as new.”

  “Great.” I flash him a bigger smile than I actually feel. “Then let’s get to it.”

  He’s right. She really is almost completely finished. It turns out all we need to do today is add a finishing layer of paint and run through some tests of the engine. Antonio shows me how to do that with the hood popped, me observing while he sits in the driver’s seat and runs through stepping on the gas in neutral, then walks me through checking her oil and the gas tank, the coolant fluid levels, all of that.

  Some of it’s actually useful stuff. The kind of stuff that I should remember from back when I got my first car, a million years ago, and my dad tried to show me all this. But at the time, I remember ignoring him. I figured I could always call roadside assistance if anything happened to the car, and besides, I had my family members to help me with any issues that might crop up.

  Then, by the time I realized how important it might be to know more than that about your own vehicle… well. By then I didn’t ever want to see another car, let alone drive or own or take care of one.

  My stomach tightens.

  That knot only gets worse when Antonio shuts off the car again, slams the driver’s side door, and crosses around to close Betty’s hood, before he pats it once, twice, like a dad patting his kid on the head. “You did a good job with her,” he says, his gaze fixed on me, searing. Studying. “Thank you.”

  My cheeks flush. “Don’t thank me,” I protest. “I’m the one who busted her up in the first place.”

  He smirks. “True. But still.” He steps closer to me, until I can feel the heat from his body radiating just a few inches away. His breath tickles my cheekbones. “There aren’t many people in the world who I’d trust with my baby. You’re one of them now.”

  I swallow, hard, because my throat suddenly feels tight.

  And then there it comes. A question I’ve been dreading. “You want to give her a spin?” he asks. He tosses me the keys.

  I reach up and catch them, but it’s just a reflex. Just as quickly, I part my fingers, let them fall to the floor in a subconscious denial. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “You told me yesterday that you used to love driving when you were younger.”

  Damn me and my stupid big mouth. Damn him for getting close enough to make me spill secrets like that. “Yeah, and then I told you I don’t anymore,” I reply slowly.

  He crosses his arm. Tilts his head, peering at me like I’m the subject of some fascinating study he’s interested in learning more about. “You never did explain why.”

  I tip my chin back so I can keep my gaze fixed on his, defiant. “I didn’t realize it was necessary for me to explain myself.”

  He shakes his head a little, then, and his expression shifts from curious to sad. “You know, you could stand to let people in just a little bit, Selena.”

  I flinch, then scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He keeps shaking his head, stepping back from me now. I feel the absence between us like a splash of cold water across my face, where his warmth used to be. “What’s the big secret?” he says. He reaches over to rest a palm on the hood of his car. “You’re a natural in the garage you know. One of the quickest studies I’ve ever worked with. And you clearly enjoy the job itself, as long as you don’t have to think of the puzzle pieces you’re working with as a car.” He raps his knuckles against the hood. They make a soft tinking sound against the metal. “But then you have to get into a working car, and,” he flings his hands in the air now, “you freak out.”

  “I do not freak out.”

  “Oh really?” He arches an eyebrow. “What do you call literally sprinting out of the garage two days ago, then?”

  “That was unrelated.”

  “And this morning on the drive here?” He crosses his arms and tilts his head again. But this time his stare feels like a challenge. One that I’m not sure I’m up to facing. “Why were you practically hyperventilating in the passenger seat? If you aren’t uncomfortable inside cars.”

  “I just don’t like driving anymore, okay?”

  “Why not? What happened?”

  “Who says anything happened?” I take a step backward, but he mirrors me, until my back winds up pinned against the closed garage door of the shop.

  “Because, people don’t just go from loving cars and driving — you said one of your favorite things to do was drive, you said that — to freaking out every time they need to be in one. And I don’t get why you can’t just trust me enough to tell me about it, or tell me anything, in fact. What are you so afraid of? Surely I’ve proven by now that I’m not going to laugh at you or insult you.”

  “I never said you would,” I mumble.

  “Yet you don’t trust me anyway,” he snaps.

  “It’s not about trust. It’s just private.”

  “Oh really?” He uncrosses his arms now, and leans in. “Because I’ve trusted you, Selena. I’ve trusted that you were being honest with me, when we started this…” He gestures between us. “Whatever it is we’re doing. But then I go over to your apartment, a place you seemed worried to have me in, and see all these photos of you everywhere with another guy…”

  My stomach actually does a backflip now, and the nausea crawls up my throat. I try to speak, but when I open my mouth, no words come out. I can’t. I can’t talk about this, I can’t do this…

  “Who is that?” Antonio asks, his voice pitched low, almost sweet, except for the worry in his eyes. The fear that he’s trying to hide. “Is he your boyfriend or something, Selena?”

  “God.” I finally regain my tongue, and stumble sideways away from him. “You really think I’d…” I shake my head, like I’m trying to clear water from my ears. “You know what, Antonio, it’s none of your damn business, okay?”

  “Selena, all I’m doing is trying to get you to open up more—”

  “And why is that your job?” I spit. “You think you know me? You don’t know anything about me. What makes you think I want to open up to you?”

  He flinches, hurt blooming in his expression.

  I wince, too, but I turn my head so that he won’t see it. Damn it. I didn’t want to hurt him. But I don’t see why he has to keep prying, why he has to try to get to know things about me, things that I’d much rather keep hidden, not deal with. He started this fight. I shouldn’t feel guilty for finishing it.

  “Are we done here?” I ask, my voice so soft that I’m surprised he can hear it.

  But he must have been listening for me to say something. Because he replies, just as quietly. “Yeah. We’re done here, Selena. You told your father you would fix my car. And you’ve done it. Our deal is finished.”

  He sounds so formal now. So cold, where a moment ago he was all heat and fire, trying to get through to me. It makes my heart ache and twist in my chest, thinking about the hurt I just caused. But it’s for the best. I have to remember that. This is for his own good.

  If he gets close to me, things will only be worse in the end.

  “Great,” I say, and I’m proud that my voice only wavers slightly. “Goodbye then, Antonio.” I hold my chin up, my shoulders stiff, as I stride out of the garage. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess, but at least I manage to wait until I make it all the way outside and into the parking lot before the tears finally spill over.

  10

  Antonio

  I land another hard punch on the bag. It spins and twirls, then nearly smacks me right back
in the face, until I catch it at the last minute with both fists, wrapped up tight in my boxing tape.

  I would’ve deserved that smack to the face.

  With a growl, I land another punch, and watch the bag spiral away once more, dangling as it does from a hook in the center of the garage, where I hang it up whenever I need a workout, or just to blow off some steam after a long day.

  In my head, our voices replay, over and over. The fight’s on repeat, torturing me.

  Why did I say all that? Why did I push her, why did I keep bringing it up when she clearly didn’t want to talk about it? I regret it, and I’ve texted Selena as much, telling her I’m sorry. If she doesn’t want to talk about her past, I’ll stop trying to make her.

  She read the text hours ago. But she never replied. When I finally gathered the courage to call her a few hours after that, the call went straight to voicemail.

  My fists throb, but I hit the bag again. Again.

  All I want to do is rewind time. Go back and take back all the things I said. All the things she said, too. Start over fresh, just the two of us, the way we fell asleep last night. All tangled up in each other.

  The bag isn’t giving me the release it normally does. Finally, I give up and take it off its hook, stash it in the corner, and go to shower. But even in the shower, I can’t escape. I just keep picturing the last time I was in this very same shower stall with Selena. Everything we did. How soft and warm her body felt under my fingertips or pressed up against me.

  Fuck, will I never be able to get this girl out of my head?

  After the shower, I try calling her again. Once again, it goes straight to voicemail. Then, because I can’t think of anything else to do, I dial her father’s number instead. His rings, at least. But it keeps ringing, and ringing, until it too goes to an answering machine.

  I hang up without leaving a message. I stare at the wall. And then, an idea forming in my head — probably a terrible one at that — I yank my jeans off the sink and start to get dressed.

  * * *

  By the time I pull up outside the Browns’ place, it’s already getting dark. I stopped by Selena’s apartment on my way here, but the lights were all off, no signs of her anywhere.

  So here I am, acting like a total madman, pulling up her parents’ drive at dinnertime on a random weeknight. For a minute I just sit in the car, my hands fisted around the wheel, debating. Should I actually go in there? She ran away — again — because she was mad at me for pushing too hard, asking questions she didn’t want to answer. Will she really appreciate me coming here and asking her parents where I can find her?

  But on the other hand… I can’t shake the expression on her face when she ran. She looked like she was in a lot of pain, as if I’d been torturing her, not asking simple questions about whose photo was on her wall, or why she freaked out so badly around cars. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about whatever it is she’s not talking about. As if her past is a dark shadow cast over her present.

  I couldn’t live with myself if she got hurt, somehow, or wound up in trouble because I riled her up and sent her off into the world angry and confused.

  So, after that solid minute of debate, I climb out of the car and slam the door, approaching the house.

  I only make it about halfway up the driveway before the front door opens, and a woman emerges, bags on both shoulders. “Mrs. Brown?” I call, so as not to startle her, since she has her back to me and she’s busy locking the front door.

  Selena’s mother glances over her shoulder, and her face almost immediately splits into a welcoming smile. “Oh, Antonio! How nice to see you. Mark isn’t in right now; he’s working late at the office. I was just about to run some things over to him.” Her gaze drifts past me and lands on the car parked in the drive behind me. “Oh! Is that the Rolls that Selena was helping you fix?”

  I glance back at Betty, looking good as new. Better, in fact. I’d been meaning to update her paint job and roll out a few dings she’d gotten in the course of normal wear and tear for a while now. Working on her with Selena gave me the chance to finally get to that. “Yeah,” I say. I turn back to Mrs. Brown, my smile widening. “She’s a hard worker, your daughter. She really picked things up quickly.”

  “Oh good. I’m so glad to hear that.” Mrs. Brown shifts her bags from one shoulder to the other and strides up the walkway toward me. “You know, I think this might have been a really good step for Selena, actually. Not the smashing up your car in the first place part — I do apologize again for that.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “It’s over and forgotten, trust me.” And honestly, part of me is grateful that she did smash up the car, anyway. If she hadn’t, we never would have met. Never gotten the chance to connect… And I never would have started to fall for her.

  The thought startles me. But I realize it’s true. I’m developing feelings for Selena, beyond just craving her touch, her body beside mine, my hands all over her curves. I want to know her, to talk to her, to take her on more dates like the one we went on at the beach.

  I want this to be real, I think, and the thought sends a pleasant hum through my veins. Immediately followed by an icy chill, when I remember our last argument. The way she stormed out of my garage.

  Fuck.

  “Actually, Mrs. Brown, I wanted to ask you…” Then I pause. Stop myself, frowning. “Sorry, you were saying something?” I add.

  Mrs. Brown’s eyes crinkle when she smiles, just like her daughter’s. “Just that I think working in a garage will help Selena in more ways than just when it comes to work ethic. She hasn’t been comfortable around cars in a long time… This might help her overcome that, if she can see how they work, get used to being around them again.” Her smile widens. “Maybe this is a sign that she’s finally moving on with her life.”

  I frown, tilting my head. “Moving on… from what?”

  Mrs. Brown’s smile shifts. Turns sad around the edges, before it slips away. She sighs, and in just that one motion, a million more lines appear around her mouth and eyes. “Five years ago, my older son was killed by a drunk driver,” she says softly.

  I blink. Whatever I’d expected, it wasn’t this. Selena never even mentioned having a brother. Hell, Mark never mentioned losing a son, and I’ve been working with him for three years.

  After a beat, I realize I’m staring like a moron instead of talking. “Mrs. Brown, I… I’m so sorry for your loss,” I tell her. It feels inadequate. A hugely pointless statement.

  But she nods her head anyway. “It was…” She presses her lips together, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment to recover. “It was hard on all of us, of course,” she says. “But for Selena… She was in the car with him, you see. The driver hit his side directly; she only got a few cuts and bruises. But to witness that in person…” Mrs. Brown shakes her head.

  I run a hand through my hair, my head spinning. Of course. It all makes so much sense now. Her terror whenever I asked her to steer Betty for our test run. The way she acts jumpy around cars, and nervous anytime she has to drive in one, even just as a passenger.

  The way she talked about how she used to love driving, but not anymore.

  My mouth feels dry. I can’t imagine what she went through.

  Mrs. Brown is still talking, though, so I try to refocus on her words. “Selena and her brother were very close. After the accident… she was never the same. She dropped out of college, spent years just… staying in the basement here, not even going out. Lately, since she got that apartment on her own actually, she’s been doing a little bit better. She can take Ubers now, though I know they still make her nervous. But…” Mrs. Brown’s expression brightens just a little. “This garage thing is a whole new step. If it went as well as you say, then, maybe she’s starting to come back to her normal self.”

  I force myself to smile in response. At the same time, I can’t help replaying our last argument with this new knowledge in my mind.

  Oh, god. The pictures all around her h
ouse. Of Selena and another guy, with her arms wrapped around him. My stomach churns, the feeling turning sour now. I accused her of hiding a boyfriend or something from me, when all this time, that has to have been her brother. Her brother, who died in a car accident that traumatized her for years.

  Fuck. I have to go find her. I have to explain everything, apologize for what I said.

  Mrs. Brown tilts her head, peering at me with a new frown this time. “Are you all right, Antonio?” she asks. Then she glances behind me at the car again, as if remembering where we are, and how I just randomly showed up in their driveway. “Did you need something? If you want to talk to Mark, he’ll be finishing up in a couple of hours at the office. You’re welcome to come with me to meet him, though—”

  “No, nothing like that,” I blurt, then wince at how I just interrupted her. I clear my throat, wondering how much I should say. I don’t want to worry Selena’s mother any more than strictly necessary. After all, it was just one fight. The fact that Selena’s not in her apartment doesn’t mean anything. She could be out with a friend, or just walking somewhere. She could even be home and just ignoring me.

  The more I think about it, the more likely that last option sounds.

  “I just wanted to check in,” I hear myself saying. “And let you both know that we’ve finished up the job. And to mention how well Selena did, again.”

  Mrs. Brown’s smile returns, wide again. “Well, thank you for stopping by. I’ll be sure to pass the message along to Mark. As I said, that’s a great relief for me to hear, and I’m sure he’ll feel the same way.” She shifts her bags once more. “We just want our daughter back to her old happy, healthy self. At least as much as that’s possible.”

  “Of course. That’s all I want to,” I say, before I can think better of it.

  Mrs. Brown’s eyebrows rise, just a hair, and I could kick myself for blurting that out. But the longer she stares at me, the more knowing Selena’s mother’s smile turns, until she’s practically smirking. “Oh,” she says slowly. “I see.”