Chapter Three
Fox
The feel of torn-up tarmac under my tires, the heat rolling off my engine block, and the sharp, salty smell of fear-sweat from the dealer in the passenger seat; after years of sitting still, watching other cars come and go, the moment burned through me like fresh gasoline.
Every second of waiting at that dealership lot had been worth it.
I could feel your excitement even as you killed the engine and slid the key from the ignition. The way your pulse still raced, matching the slow ticking of my cooling motor. Your heart and my engine are settling into the same rhythm.
The salesman stumbled out first, legs shaky, wiping his forehead with a trembling hand. You followed a moment later, calm as anything, smoothing your sleeves down like a man who had merely finished a pleasant afternoon drive.
I knew the second you opened the door and stepped out that you were coming back for me.
The world went quiet as you shut my door and patted my handle, before you disappeared into the dealership office.
For a brief, terrifying moment, I wondered if I had been wrong.
Maybe you would still walk away; maybe reason would creep back into your mind and drag you off toward something safer. A sensible sedan, or worse: a hybrid. Something dull and obedient that would never try to drag you onto the highway just to see what you were capable of.
The other cars on the lot shifted slightly in the wind, their polished bodies reflecting the afternoon sun with strange smugness.
A silver EV across from me seemed particularly pleased with itself: a family car.
Reliable, practical. A four-door electric Mustang, with a galloping horse racing along its front.
I hated it. It didn’t deserve the emblem on its grill; it might have been a Mustang by name, but it sure as hell didn’t have the soul of one.
And if you picked it over me, then what would I have left to offer?
***
The minutes stretched into an eternity.
Then, the dealership door burst open, and there you were, grinning widely.
You waved the signed paperwork at me, and the sight of it sent a jolt through every wire in my frame.
Was this what marriage felt like for humans?
It was only a simple piece of paper, fresh ink drying across the signature line, but it felt like a promise, a vow. Binding.
Nothing could separate us now.
You paused, looking down at the keys. I saw you bite your lip.
Ah. The realization had hit at last, then. You hadn’t planned for today to go this way. I watched, amused, as your lips silently rehearsed excuses; what you’d say to your family, how you’d justify bringing home a thirty-year-old V8 that drank gasoline like a dying man drinks water.
But we were meant to be. I was built for you. Sure, I’d had a few previous owners, but I had no doubt you’d had a few exes yourself.
That was fine. I could forgive that.
I’d even allow the Honda Odyssey to share the garage with me. After all, someone had to haul messy children and random finds from the marketplace, and she was no competition, really.
No other car would ever compare to me.
You knew it.
And I knew it too.
But, first things first.
The moment you took your seat behind the wheel, I flashed the ‘low fuel’ signal, ignoring how rudely your brows shot up. “Thirsty one, aren’t you?” You laughed.
I took no offense. I was thirsty. Eighteen miles per gallon was great mileage for the V8 engine under my hood, and I knew how badly you wanted me.
Whatever you’d shaved off of twenty grand wasn’t going to go as far as you thought.
My oil needed changing, my brake pads were getting thin, and my rear tires had just endured a rather dramatic negotiation maneuver.
But one thing at a time. No need to scare you off by being too high-maintenance on the first day.
“Let’s fill you up and figure out what your deal is,” you said, turning the wheel toward the road.
My deal?
I am a 1992 Ford Mustang GT Fox Body with a five-speed manual transmission and a five-liter V8 engine. I have 225 horsepower as is, and I can be supercharged for more if you want. I am powerful, reliable, and I’m yours. That’s my entire deal. What else was there to know?
***
The drive to the nearest gas station was gentle, almost affectionate.
You weren’t pushing the throttle this time; you were simply listening and enjoying the sound of the engine.
Your fingers rested lightly on the steering wheel, tracing the leather as it rolled beneath your palms through every turn.
You were learning me. Feeling the way I moved, the way my suspension shifted over small bumps, the subtle resistance in my power steering. The growl I offered when you nudged the accelerator, teasing me with the broken promise of speed.
We pulled into a station and rolled up to an empty pump.
You reached down below the steering column without looking, sliding two fingers under the fuel release and popping the gas hatch open in one smooth motion.
Interesting.
You hadn’t hesitated for even a second. Your hand went straight to the right spot. I wondered if you’d owned a Mustang before.
I watched eagerly as you stepped out and grabbed the pump nozzle, and froze.
Regular 93! Is that how you treat a new lover?
I immediately snapped the fuel door shut again, locked until you reconsidered your choice. Maybe you hadn’t owned a Mustang before, after all. Seriously, the 98 nozzle was right there!
“What?” You groaned, holding the offending pump.
I swear, if you put that in me, I’m going to flood the engine.
To your credit, you understood my protest. You walked back to the pump and switched the nozzle.
“I guess in the grand scheme of things,” you sighed, grabbing the 98. “A few dollars saved won’t make much of a dent.”
Correct.
I opened the tank, inviting you to fill me; you guide the metal pipe into my hole with steady, firm hands. If cars could moan, I might have. Instead, I let the engine idle in a low, satisfied hum. You laughed, leaning casually against my fender as the gasoline flowed.
“Engine off at the pump,” you said, tapping my hood. “You know the rules.”
Rules. Laws. You and I were going to break so many.
I was going to enjoy this. Everything about this felt right.
Your body against mine, the feeling of being full after years of neglect.
I drank greedily; the warm gasoline, the sight of you illuminated by the bright neon lights.
Your reflection stretched across my glossy black paint, your dark hair matching me perfectly.
Even our eyes were similar. Mine glowed faintly from the dashboard.
Yours caught the yellow light in a way that made them shine the same dull gold.
The pump finally clicked.
Full.
You glanced at the screen above the pump, but this time, like a proper gentleman, you didn’t mention the number.
And I appreciated that.
Because there was no price for what we had just begun.