I nod, confirming that I do indeed like him like him.
fourteen
. . .
i nod, confirming that i do indeed like him like him.
Throughout the week, I’ve looked through Miller’s notebook more than I did anything, including listening to smutty audio. In fact, I paused my audiobook while the hero has his pants down and the heroine is smacking his ass while he’s lying over his desk.
Usually, stopping at such an important time in a book makes me feel off, like the characters are real people just frozen, standing around until I finish the book.
Crazy, but that’s how it usually goes for me.
That's why I go through books so fast. Once I start, I need to know the story, and I want to finish.
But this time, I’m leaving them as is because all I want to do is absorb every single page of this notebook. His notebook. I know he gave it to me, but I can’t keep it. In fact, as soon as I go through it all, I’m going to fix it up and give it back to him. As a Christmas gift.
At the kitchen table, before work, I’ve got the notebook spread open as I apply a thin layer of clear tape to one of the more worn edges.
The page in question is filled with a perfectly drawn diagram of a wiper blade.
The pencil it’s drawn with has smeared over the years, so I ordered a ultra fine tip black marker on Amazon so I can retrace everything then tape it all.
I hope he doesn't mind the modifications.
“Oh, I like that page,” Art says from behind as he hobbles into the kitchen.
After his trip to the ER a few weeks back, he’s been going to the pain clinic for injections.
He’s only been twice, but they’ve put him on schedule to get them twice a week for some time.
I hope they work because watching someone who thrives emotionally off their physical capability lose said abilities… It's been hard.
“Yeah?” I look up at him over my shoulder as he peers down at the page.
The night I got back from Miller’s with the notebook, I stayed up all night going through it.
I may just be the first woman ever who stays up all night reading a mechanic’s notebook but…
honestly, I didn’t read because I wanted to know how to put a windshield wiper blade on or how a jack works.
I wanted to see pieces of Miller that he hasn’t shown me.
The next few days, I became engrossed with the notebook, lying on the couch, sitting on the porch, or tucked into the corner next to my parents’ old record player with the notebook spread over my knees–I read it nonstop.
I didn’t hide it either because something about the notebook made me feel so proud.
Proud to know a person like Miller, who has overcome and tackled so much scary shit on his own.
And he’s a phenomenal mechanic. The fact that he was self-taught when he gained his apprenticeship kind of blows my mind because Atticus and Beau wouldn’t take someone who wasn’t ready.
He got himself to where he needed to be without a technical school or a real mentor but on his own.
It’s incredible. All while supporting himself and going through the mental and emotional trauma of having parted from his family.
I was proud to show that notebook to Art, to have Mara poke through it with my supervision, to have mom flip through it in awe of who Miller really is. They saw the notebook the same way I did–as a tribute to how incredible he is. To how much he’s done and how far he’s come.
And even though he’ll get to belong to someone else one day, I’m honored to have him in my life in this season and to get to know him this well. He’s truly beautiful, inside and out. Not to mention that cock and those balls, holy hell.
I pinch the neck of the sweatshirt to fan myself, pushing away thoughts of Miller and his incredible orgasms that make me soaking and sopping wet.
“I like how he drew one diagram, then lightly drew the steps over the top. It makes the way the blade clips work make more sense.”
Tilting my head, I consider the hand-drawn diagram from Art’s perspective and fan myself a bit more. “He drew this as a teen,” I add, making the sketch much more complex.
Art pats my shoulder. “I like Miller’s dedication to things. That’s a hard-working man, right there.”
Mara and mom come into the kitchen, arguing about whether or not Mara’s gi is pressed well enough.
Mom tosses her hands into the air, bags circling her eyes as she huffs, “then iron it yourself, Mara. I swear, I pressed that after ten hours on last night. I’m exhausted.
Okay? Press it again if it’s not sharp enough.
Never mind the fact that it’s probably been draped over your chair with a wet towel on it! ”
Mara rolls her eyes as she slides into a chair at the table. Art pours us each a glass of juice and lowers two bowls of cereal to the table. “Thanks,” I say, picking up my spoon to have a bite of store-brand Cheerios.
“I didn’t put my towel over it,” Mara argues as she takes a bite of her cereal, refusing to give up while she chews. Around a mouth of milk and Tasty-O’s, she says, “you only ironed the front. The back looks bad!”
Her eyes catch on the notebook as they drag away from my mom, where she’d been hitting her with a punishing glare. Though my mom, in her exhausted state, seemed utterly unphased by Mara’s squinty eyes and huffy attitude.
“Miller’s notebook,” she says softly, tipping her head to focus on the page. “Did you get the pen?”
I nod. “It’s coming today. I put sticky notes on all the pages I want to redo.”
She holds her finger up and bolts away from the table, returning with a notepad of her own. This one, however, is held together at the top. Fanning the notebook out, she flips through it to show me the pages are lineless and blank.
“I got this for you. Tear a sheet out and use it behind the paper you’re fixing; that way, it doesn’t bleed.” She passes the notepad to me, tapping her finger on top of it. “And you can use this to add pages. You’d just have to tape them in.”
“Thanks, Mara,” I say. “I hadn’t thought about adding anything, but now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea.”
“Okay, I’m taking dad to his clinic appointment. Then we’re getting groceries.” Mom drops a quick kiss on both of our heads. “Be here when I get back, so we don’t have to unload alone.”
I glance at my watch. “We’ll be back from Mara’s comp practice in two hours. So… if you get home before then, you’re shit outta luck.”
Mom shakes her head as Art pulls his beanie over his silvering hair. “You certainly have the mouth of a mechanic.”
Once they’ve managed to collect the things they need to leave the house–a bottle of water, Art’s Sudoku book, mom’s purse, the grocery list, reusable bags, and the envelope of coupons, Mara grins at me.
“I don’t know why you’re smiling, but I’m not lying for you.” I fold my arms over my chest and prod her with my pointed gaze. “Or buying you alcohol. You’re too young for that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Gross. I don’t want alcohol. I just wanted to ask how it’s going with Miller.”
I look down at the notebook as my skin grows hot. I can tell Mara. Maybe not the nitty gritty details of our arrangement–that can’t come for many years, if ever–but I can admit to her the thing I’m having trouble admitting to myself.
Extending my hand, I stick out my pinky. “Between us,” I say as she hooks her pinky with mine. We curl our fingers, making a pact for privacy.
I sigh and sink into the chair, staring dreamily at his notebook like I’m staring at a photo of my lover who is at war. “I really like him.”
“ Like him, like him?” she clarifies with all of the transparency of an opaque teenager.
I nod, confirming that I do indeed like him, like him.
“Does he like you?” She leans in, letting her pink fingernails drag down along the metal spiral.
“Miller likes everyone. I think he’s just enjoying my company because he’s usually alone. But he’s definitely, like, a gold-level dude. He won’t be single for long. Once he puts himself out there, he’ll get snatched up. And I’m sure whoever he ends up with will never let him go.”
“Why can’t that be you?” she asks, reaching across the table to snag the apple Art set out for her. She shoves it in her bag, which she pulls up from the back of the chair into her lap.
My phone saves the day, rattling loudly against the table as my alarm sounds. “We gotta go.” I look her up and down as we stand. “You don’t have time to iron your gi anyway,” I say, “so why bug mom over it?”
“When I do my gi myself, she makes me do the front and back. But when she does it, she can half-ass it?” she says as I trail after her toward the door, making a visual sweep of the house to make sure everything is turned off and ready to be left.
“She’s half-assing your gi because she’s full-timing two jobs, a husband, and two kids. So remember that,” I say gently as we get into my freezing cold car in the driveway.
Then we drive to karate, not another mention of Miller to be made, and I’m grateful. Not because I have anything to hide but because all of the things on my mind are not safe for the ears of a twelve-year-old confidant.
I don’t dare take the notebook out at karate because that space has proved to be unsafe, and I’ve been treating Miller’s notes like my fucking firstborn. Rock approaches me while a family is sitting behind me, and I think he does this because he believes I won’t make a scene.
But he never did know me that well.
“D, are you over it yet?”
I scooch away from him on the bleacher and keep my sights on Mara.
“You’re pretty snotty for a poor chick,” he adds, sliding closer to me .
“If you think that because a family is behind us I won’t scream at the top of my lungs, you’re wrong.”
His face wrinkles with worry before it melts away quickly, leaving me the one feeling uneasy. He runs his tongue along his top teeth. “Nah, you wouldn’t embarrass your sister like that.” He slides toward me again, his hip connecting with mine.