I like her. A lot.
thirteen
. . .
i like her. a lot.
The plunk, plunk, plunk of coffee brewing paired with the sound of Salsa’s collar clanking against the floor as he cleans himself sounds so much louder than normal. That’s the harmony I wake to and have done for years, but today, the auto brew coffee and the orange cat are too loud.
“Salsa, buddy, please,” I groan, rolling over, taking the pillow with me.
But even with a down pillow covering me, there is still so much noise. But it’s not the coffee pot or Salsa; it’s in my head.
I’ve been in this mood before. Uneasy, nervous, unsure, and of course, alone. I’ve seen a doctor, in fact, because I’ve felt this way so many times in the past. But it turns out I just have a bit of anxiety.
That’s when I started writing letters to my dad.
To ease the anxiousness. And honestly? As much as I tried to believe it wasn’t going to help, it did.
Getting out of bed, I pad down the hall after giving Salsa plenty of butt pats and take a seat at my small table.
Reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, I grab a pencil, tuck my head down and begin.
I don’t usually know what I’m going to say, but as soon as Dear Dad is scrawled at the top, the words just come.
Dear Dad,
As I start, like usual, Salsa jumps into my lap. Stepping on the cage, he lifts his paw as if he’s stepped on a landmine and immediately jumps down. “Sorry, buddy,” I call after him as he trots toward the couch, settling for a comfy spot there.
Returning to my letter, words pour from me.
One thing I always thank you for in my head and in these letters is that you supported my interest in working on cars.
I know now that your support was partly because it would’ve given me a lifelong job on the commune, as the trade mechanics there were aging.
I like to believe that part of it was you wanting me to thrive and wanting your son to have something he enjoyed. I’ll never know, though.
Even without knowing the reason, I can thank you for letting me do it.
Letting me tinker, putting things back together after taking them apart, and mostly, I want to thank you for letting me have my notebook.
I never saw another boy with a notebook, and even though the insides were filled with car and truck-related stuff, I knew then, somehow, it was special.
That me having something of my own was a secret. A big deal, even.
It’s the only thing I left with that day. I don’t know if you know that or even remembered the notebook. As I got older, around sixteen, I hid it. I hid it because I remembered when the fruit snack wrapper was confiscated, and I didn’t want my notebook to be taken.
You probably don’t even remember the notebook.
You wrote in it. Twice. Once when we were changing a tire without a jack, you scribbled a diagram.
I doubt you remember. I was thirteen. The sun was burning hot that day, and we were in our long sleeves and pants.
I took off my brim hat and held it to the sun.
I’ll never forget you peering over at me from where you were crouched by that old car.
Partly in the sun, partly in the shade, sweat keeping your hair pressed to your forehead.
You smiled, and I smiled. And if there’s only one thing I choose to carry with me, it’s that moment.
At least, I try for it to be that moment–none of the rest of it.
I’m teaching someone to work on cars now, too .
A woman.
You’d hate it, I’m sure. Women in your world don’t work on cars. But this woman does. And she’s probably going to be better at it than me. She’s smart, Dad, and I think in another life, one where you can see limitlessly, I think you’d like her.
I like her. A lot.
And I know that’s all that matters.
I hope you’re well.
Your son,
Miller
Bottom third up, top third down, into the envelope the letter goes, and then it’s in the box with the rest. And like usual, my mind is a bit quieter now. At least quiet enough for me to focus on today.
It’s Friday, and Delane hasn’t texted me to meet up, not one single time this week. In fact, I’ve hardly seen her at Kings. She’s been there–she never misses a day. But her EarPods are her main focus. I’m used to that. She’s been that way for years.
I’m just a bit confused because I thought we were getting closer. The last time she was here, we ate, and I told her some part of the truth about how I felt, and she didn’t seem adverse to it.
So the week has been confusing, and probably where I’ve collected all this anxious energy.
After filling my water, packing my lunch, and feeding Salsa, I get dressed in my work blues, Wrench Kings hoodie, Kings coat and tug my baseball cap down to hide my sleep-deprived eyes.
I’ve let her have space this week, but today, I’m going to talk to her. Because I’m going to start chasing what I want.
After all, what’s the point of being free of that life if I’m not living my new one here?
“Except, I know what I said, and that ain’t it,” Atti growls, stepping into his space. The man’s shoulder slides back, and I’ve seen this before, lots of times.
“Oh, it sure as shit is what you said,” the man argues, ego and pride inflating his chest, empowering his arrogance. “Now, I expect you to honor it.”
Stepping between the guys, I press a palm to Atti’s chest. “I’ll take it from here, man,” I say, needing to diffuse things before Atticus makes a home in this guy’s face with his fist.
“Fine,” Atti gruffs, stalking off.
Facing the man, I smile, which only intensifies his glare.
“We’ll honor the price, but it’s probably best you visit another shop for the rest of your needs after this repair.
” Middle ground. He gets his way, but we all know he’s full of it because Atti doesn’t promise prices to anyone, so he can go elsewhere after.
He spits next to my shoe while maintaining eye contact. I think it’s supposed to be an aggressive power move, but he doesn’t know it takes more than spit near my shoe to rile me up.
“Fine,” he says when he realizes my smile isn’t going anywhere.
With a dip of my head, I say, “great, you’re more than welcome to wait in the lobby, but it’s going to be close to forty-five minutes.”
He stomps off and, a moment later, enters the waiting area. I don’t like him being in there with Delane, but Atti’s already got his car on the hydraulic lift, starting the repair. I sidle up to him, ready to help.
We work in silence for thirty minutes, and though it’s not a two-person repair, I think we both want this asshole out of here. But I don’t get to finish helping Atti because there’s a loud noise from the office, and I’m headed that way within a second because… Delane’s in there.
When I push open the back door and see the man at the desk, mere inches away from Delane, I find myself coming to her, stepping in front of her, anxious to absorb his anger so she doesn’t have to.
“What’s the problem here?” I ask.
“She’s saying what that other degenerate said! I want the price I was promised, goddamn it!” he shouts, slamming his credit card onto the counter.
From behind me, Delane hisses, “degenerate? Who the fuck are you calling a degenerate?”
I take the card, adjust the price on the computer screen, and swipe. I give him the pink slip from his work order and hand him his receipt. “Leave now.”
And thankfully, he does. When I turn to face her, Delane’s eyes are wide, and I’m shocked to find them wet. Delane stands up to assholes–I’ve unfortunately seen it before a few times.
“I didn’t mean to, like, override you or whatever,” I stumble awkwardly, my chest fracturing from the torn expression on her face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you, but I heard him shouting, and I just…
I worried. I know you can take care of yourself,” I add, babbling until she speaks be cause I really don’t know what’s wrong–was it that jerk, or was it me white knighting her?
I know she isn’t a woman who wants to be saved that way. She’s strong.
“Laney,” I whisper, my heartbeat growing more and more frantic by the second. “Talk to me; I’m freaking out.”
The wetness never leaves her eyes as she says, “I can take care of myself, but that was nice of you.” She rolls her lips together, wrapping her cardigan around herself protectively. “Thank you.”
She looks toward the blank computer screen, dodging me.
Gently, because no one is around, I reach out and bring her eyes to mine by taking her chin.
“You’ve been avoiding me all week, and I’m confused, Laney.
” I shove my hands in my pockets and put it all out there the way I promised myself I would.
“I thought we had a good time. And I gotta say, ghosting me doesn’t do much for my confidence issue. ”
Her hands fly to her face, where she buries them, shaking her head so hard that some of her ringlets break free. Still hiding her face from me in her palms, she groans, “I know, and I’m so sorry, Miller. I’m so sorry. I suck.”
I hook my finger around her pinky, tug her hands away from her face, and see her eyes are misty again. I don’t like how she’s so emotional, and I don’t know why.
“What’s the matter, Laney? You’re scaring me.”
She laughs, and a tear slides down her cheek. “You’re right. We had an amazing time, and I’ve been avoiding you all week, and here you are, worried about how I feel.” She shakes her head again, and I yearn to wrap my arms around her and absorb her pain, worries, or whatever she’s feeling.
But we don’t do that. Especially not at work. Emotional support hugs have nothing to do with our arrangement.