First-Time Caller

Chapter 24

M y phone buzzes with a text while I’m leaning over the hood of a vintage Chevy. I slip it out of my pocket with grease-stained fingers, a smudge of black across the top of my screen.

AIDEN: I’m sorry, did you say pineapple is your favorite pizza topping?

I snicker. I’ve been texting with Aiden in between car adjustments and trips to the coffee machine. The conversation has been steered carefully away from any mention of what happened Wednesday night at the station, but it doesn’t stop the cascade of hazy, hot memories every time I see his name pop up on my phone.

Believe it, buddy , I type back. You’re just looking for a reason to argue with me.

His reply comes through immediately.

AIDEN: Yeah, you’re right.

AIDEN: I like it when you get huffy.

I sigh and slip my phone back into my pocket. We went from an impulsive kiss to an explosive moment in the broom closet to flirting over texts. Now that I’m not holding on to any expectations, I’m having fun.

I close the hood of the truck and wipe my hands on the towel tucked through my belt loop. Maybe that was the problem. I had too many plans. Too many expectations. I told Aiden I want magic, but I’ve been putting qualifications around the idea of it.

Maybe I just needed some fun instead.

“Lu?” Harvey pokes his head into the garage from the reception area. “You got a minute? Chevy Guy is in the waiting room. Says he wants a status update before he leaves.”

“He’s still here?” I started working on the Chevy about two hours ago. He was the first customer at the service bay this morning, waiting patiently up against the cab of his truck.

Still no underglow , he had assured me. Just to be clear.

Harvey nods. “Keeps saying he wants to know if Rosie will make it.”

“I forgot he named her Rosie.” I grab my clipboard off the top of my workstation.

Chevy Guy is waiting in the same place he was last time, propped up against the front desk with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s trimmed his beard since the last time he was here, his broad shoulders hunched beneath a canvas jacket. His jeans are splattered with paint and his work boots make a thunk, thunk, thunk as he idly kicks at the reception desk.

I can’t believe he’s waited here this whole time.

Ms. Shirley—a small woman with an affinity for hand-knit sweaters who rides her power scooter to the shop once a month for a tune-up—doesn’t bother looking up from the scarf she’s working on. She schedules her tune-ups for whenever Harvey has a shift and sits in the same chair every time, watching him work through the window.

“The boy won’t sit down,” she mutters. Her needles click-clack together. “He’s driving me through the roof.”

“He’s fine, Ms. Shirley. I’m going to talk to him now.”

“Good. Get him out of here.” She peers over the top of her glasses to the window above the desk that looks into the garage. Harvey is crouched down in front of her power scooter, tinkering with the seat. I bet she “lost” the screws again. “He’s ruining my view,” she says.

“Harvey is a married man, Ms. Shirley.”

She shrugs. “No shame in lookin’, hon.”

Chevy Guy’s head snaps up and his mouth pulls tight, blue eyes soft and wide. He looks less intimidating today. More like a sad puppy.

“How bad is it, Doc?”

I flatten my lips against a smile. He clearly loves his car a lot. It’s cute. “I’m not a doctor. I’m a mechanic.”

“You’re my baby’s doctor,” he insists, not a trace of humor on his face. “Break it to me. Is Rosie going to make it?”

“She’s going to make it.”

He breathes a sigh of relief and thrusts both of his hands into his hair.

I grin. “Though she’s going to need a lot of loving. Let me walk you through my recommendations and you can decide what you want to go with. No underglow.”

“No underglow,” he agrees. “I’ll do everything else, though. Whatever it takes.”

“Still.” I laugh. I nod toward two seats in the corner and hold up my clipboard. “Let’s have a look. Do you want a coffee? You look like you need it.”

“You got any liquor? I’ve been spinning worst-case scenarios out here for hours.”

“Coffee is all I’ve got.”

“That’ll do.” He smiles and crinkles appear on either side of his eyes. “But I’ll grab it. You sit.”

He goes to the coffee station in the corner while I flip through my notes. His truck has a fairly long to-do list, but not much of it is major outside the fuel pump replacement. His transmission is in decent shape and it looks like the brake system was replaced recently. She’s been well tended to, his Rosie.

“Here.” He hands me a small paper cup and folds his body into the seat next to mine. “I guessed on how you take your coffee. Sugar seemed like a good idea.”

I don’t like sugar in my coffee at all, actually, but he was nice enough to get me a cup, so I take it without complaint. I manage to take a sip without wincing and walk him through the repairs. I explain the ones that are needed and the ones that are suggested, careful to note the estimated cost and the general timeline. He listens attentively, his gaze flicking between the sheet and my face.

I finish and hug the clipboard to my chest. “She’s in really good shape, overall. Plenty of road left to travel.”

Chevy Guy drops his head back in relief. “Thank god. My uncle handed that truck down to me when I turned sixteen. It’s been in the family for ages.”

“You think they’d kick you out if Rosie went to the big garage in the sky?”

He laughs, a low raspy sound. “Nah. No one to kick me out,” he answers easily. “It’s just me now. The truck is all I’ve got left of them.” His smile softens into something gentle. “I recognize I’ve formed an emotional attachment to an inanimate object, but she’s important to me.”

I pat his forearm. “I understand. She’s in good hands, I promise.”

He drops his hand over mine and searches my face. “Yeah. She really is.” A crease appears in the middle of his forehead and he squints, studying me. “Something about you is familiar. Do I . . . know you from somewhere?”

I pull my hand from his and flip back to the front page of my clipboard. “Have you brought Rosie in before?”

“No, like I said, I’m new to the area. It’s something else. It’s—” He drags his hand over his mouth, considering. “It’s something about your voice. Have you—you haven’t done any jingles, have you?”

“Jingles?” I laugh. “No. Not by choice.”

His mouth twists. “You sound familiar.”

I stand and brush my hands against my thighs. “Just one of those voices, I guess.”

Ms. Shirley makes a harrumph sound on the other side of the waiting room. I ignore her.

“I’ll give you a call when Rosie is ready, yeah? Probably a week or two.”

Chevy Guy stands with me. I have to tip my head back to get a good look at his face. I didn’t realize how tall he was when I was behind the desk.

“I look forward to it. Thanks”—his eyes flick down to the name patch on my coveralls and he grins—”Lu.”

He steps out the front door in two gigantic strides, the bell above the door jingling after him.

“Mm-hmm. That irritating man liked you.” Ms. Shirley loops another bit of yarn around her needle. She’s watching the window with interest. Particularly Harvey, lifting her power scooter to get a look at something on the side. His arms strain beneath the sleeves of his white T-shirt, his coveralls looped at the waist. Ms. Shirley makes a happy sound.

I drop my clipboard on the front counter and pour my barely touched coffee in the small sink by the creamer. “He did not.”

“Did too.”

“You just like to gossip.”

“And you, apparently, like to be oblivious.” She twists another loop of mustard-colored yarn around her needle. “Now I know why your daughter intervened in your love life.”

I open my mouth to say something else—that he wasn’t flirting, that flirting means a feeling at the base of my throat like there’s a hand cupped gently around it, eyes that might be blue and might be gray but are always looking right at me—when an air horn splits the conversation down the middle. I groan.

I know what that sound means.

“Best get back there,” Ms. Shirley tells me with a delighted little grin. “Or you’ll forfeit.”

I slam the door to the garage open and drag my feet over to where Harvey, Angelo, and Dan are standing huddled together. Dan’s holding four dried spaghetti noodles in his closed fist.

“All right,” he says as I drag myself closer. “Usual rules apply. Shortest stick has to drive the tow.”

Everyone at the shop hates driving the tow truck. It’s old, it smells faintly like onions from when Harvey let an Italian cold cut sandwich marinate in the glove compartment for two weeks, and the steering wheel sticks. Tows also mean sharing the front seat with a stranger who may or may not think talking on their speaker-phone in close quarters is acceptable.

“But let me remind you,” Dan says, shifting on his feet. “Whoever pulls the tow can leave early for the day. Really, this is a benefit to you. You three should be begging for the opportunity.”

“It’s already the end of the day,” I point out. “By the time we tow the car to the shop, everyone else will be gone.”

“Yeah,” Harvey crosses his arms over his chest. “If it’s such a good opportunity, why don’t you volunteer to drive the tow?”

“Because I’m the boss,” Dan says, scratching at his eyebrow. “I’m indispensable.”

Harvey snickers. “I’m gonna remind you of that during the baseball season when you’re leaving early to catch the O’s.” He shakes his head. “Indispensable. You haven’t picked up a wrench in sixty-three years, old man.”

“Yeah.” Angelo digs a bony finger into Dan’s chest. “You just don’t like talking to people.”

“Neither do you!”

This happens every single time we get a tow. The three of them bicker back and forth until it devolves into shoving and name-calling. I don’t have the patience for it today. I reach forward and pluck one of the dried spaghetti sticks and then groan immediately.

“Please tell me you made really tiny spaghetti sticks today.”

Dan shakes his head. Angelo immediately returns to his workstation. Harvey lets out a whoop.

“While I sympathize with your continued string of horrendous luck, Lu, I am pleased as punch.”

I’m about to punch him right in the chest. “Don’t be too happy about it. Without me here, you won’t have anyone to run interference with you and Ms. Shirley.” I toss my dry noodle at his face.

“Looks like I’m not the only one with horrendous luck .”

Me and my horrendous luck take to the streets.

Driving the tow truck feels like operating a cruise ship, especially along Baltimore’s narrow alleyways. The cobblestone streets make my body rattle, the radio is stuck on the smooth jazz channel, and the onion smell is worse than ever. By the time I make it to the intersection where I can see the blinking hazards of a car pulled to the side, I am officially done with the day. I’m not participating in the spaghetti-straw pull ever again. It’s biased against me and my god-awful luck.

Next time we’ll arm-wrestle. Or play rock paper scissors. Maybe throw a dart at the wall with pictures of our faces.

I yank the truck into park and hop from the driver’s side, then promptly almost face-plant into the middle of the street.

Because I know the body leaning up against the back of his car, arms crossed over his chest, hazard lights blinking orange against his silhouette. It’s the same body that had me pressed up against a metal shelf, his thigh wedged between my own, his breath hot and heavy in my ear. I’d know that body in my sleep, probably.

“Aiden,” I say, and his head snaps up. A devastating smile starts to work its way across his face.

“Lucie,” he says back, and I laugh.

ANNOUNCER: Tonight’s scheduled programming will be replaced with a live performance from the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Heartstrings will return tomorrow at its usual time.