Chapter 16
16
OLIVIA
I turn onto my street as I walk home from a short day of classes. I’m looking forward to brewing myself a hot cup of tea when I get one and jumping back into the book I’m reading. It’s another romance book that Summer recommended.
I’m on a full-fledged romance kick. I don’t know why it took me so long to get into these books. I’m strongly considering upgrading from reading on my phone to buying a real Kindle.
But after taking a couple steps down my block, an unexpected sight makes my brows draw together and sends a suspicious, uneasy feeling spiraling in my stomach.
My car’s sitting where it’s been since the day I got it towed, right at the curb in front of our house.
But its hood is open, and parked in front of it is a utility van. A hand reaches from behind the hood, gripping the top of it and pushing it down. A stocky man wearing a work jacket stands at the front of my car, brushing his hands against the front of his dark blue khaki pants.
Suspicion and concern gnaw at me as I hurry my steps towards him.
“Excuse me,” I call. “What are you doing?”
“Just finishing up the job,” he answers, gathering tools lying on the pavement in front of my car.
“But this is my car. I didn’t order any job,” I protest. I’m worried that somehow wires got crossed. I ordered the tow truck from an auto repair place, but I didn’t order any repairs, because I can’t afford them. Did they somehow automatically schedule a repair appointment? If they did, there’s no way I’m paying.
“Someone did,” the man shrugs. “Paid for it, too. Paid extra for a house call so the car wouldn’t need to be brought into the shop. Everything’s in order now, car shouldn’t be giving you any more trouble.”
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and holds out my own car keys to me. “Here you go,” he says.
My jaw goes slack. “How did you get these?”
“Your boyfriend gave them to me,” he says. “Maybe he ordered these repairs as a surprise. Well, surprise.”
“Boyfriend?” My brow furrows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The mechanic grins and lets out an amused chuckle. “Maybe tell him that.”
I hold out my hand and let him drop my keys onto it. He waves goodbye as he hauls his tool tote into the utility van and drives off. Once the initial surprise starts to wash away, it becomes clear who that him must be.
I pull out my phone and send a text. To Tuck.
What did you do?
The bubbles indicating that he’s typing bounce for a while. When the message finally comes through, I expect a full explanation, but …
Tuck
What did I do today? A bunch of things. Took a shower. Argued with Hudson about whether UFOs are real. Ate a cheeseburger for lunch. Made fun of Sebastian for watching a documentary about the history of philosophy in the living room. Leg day at the gym. Argued with Hudson about whether time travel is possible. Totally is, by the way. Do you want to hear more about the shower?
My lips remain a tight, flat line on my face, my eyebrows tugging together with annoyance as I read his message. With a twitch of my nose, I call him.
“Hey,” he answers, his voice bright and cheery. “I take it you do want to hear more about the shower? Or maybe more about leg day. I worked my glutes hard today, so they’re firm and round and …”
“This isn’t funny, Tuck,” I cut him off. My voice is cold and harsh.
He’s silent for a beat. “Wait. Are you mad?” He sounds perplexed.
“Yes, I’m mad.”
“About the car?” Confusion is still obvious in his voice.
“Yes, Tuck. About the car.”
There’s another beat of silence, followed by a couple strained sounds where he tries to say something, but clearly has trouble finding the words.
“Why?” he finally asks, obliviously.
“Because I don’t need you or anyone else coming to my rescue. I can take care of myself.” Frustration rises in my throat.
My family’s always struggled financially, and though it’s been hard, it’s built up in me an independent streak. It’s something I’m proud of, honestly. I’m proud that I’ve made it without the help that a lot of people my age have.
Tuck swooping in with his family’s money and taking care of this for me … it doesn’t sit well with me. At all.
I know he was just trying to help, and part of me recognizes I should appreciate that; but right now, a much larger part feels offended. Like he’s trying to play the rich big shot and treating me like a charity case.
“But you did need someone to help you with the car,” he protests. He’s saying the words like he’s making a simple, uncomplicated statement, no different than reading a shopping list. “And I could help you. So, I did. Now you can go to the next round of auditions in Burlington and knock ‘em fucking dead like I know you will. What’s there to be upset about?”
“You don’t get it,” I bite back.
He huffs. “You’re right about that.”
“How did you get my keys, anyway? Are you breaking into my house now?”
“No,” he replies, before following up with, “not really. I tagged along with Hudson yesterday when he dropped by to visit Salsa when you weren’t there.” Salsa’s Hudson’s cat who lives in Summer’s room now. “I found your keys by the door and swiped them. Figured you wouldn’t even notice they were gone since you’re not using the car. Or at least you weren’t ,” he says, adding emphasis. “You can now.”
Underneath the annoyance at Tuck for overstepping boundaries, the frustration that he doesn’t understand why I’m upset, and the sting of insecurity I feel at the idea of Tuck seeing me as someone who needs his charity, an ember of excitement glows.
Excitement that I actually might be able to get that Macbeth role now.
For some reason, that only ratchets up the negative feelings swirling inside me. I feel a pinch of shame that this opportunity is only available to me now because some rich guy took pity on me.
“I don’t get what the big deal is,” Tuck continues. “I was in a position to help you, so I helped you. That’s what friends do, right?”
“Oh, is that what we are? Friends?” My sarcasm comes out harsher than I intended.
“Whatever, Olivia,” Tuck says after a beat of silence on his end. “Talk to you later.”
Then, he ends the call.
I’m stewing in a bad mood and conflicting emotions. The rotten cherry on top is the feeling of guilt that laces through everything. Tuck overstepped his bounds, and I’m not in the wrong to feel peeved about it. But I can’t stop thinking of the hurt tone in his voice right before he ended the call, after I clearly implied we’re not friends.
But we’re not friends, right?
Does a friend finger you at a nightclub and then suck off your juices?
A shudder rolls through me at the memory. Now there’s a tight heat at the peak of my thighs, and that sure as hell isn’t making the cocktail of emotions I’m feeling right now any less vexing.
A gust of cold air blows up the street, reminding me that I’m still standing outside. I march up our walkway and into the house.
Instead of that cup of tea I was planning on, I think I need a big glass of wine.