Chapter 4 #2
We’re approaching the edge of the woods now, the lights of Elm Street visible through the trees. I can see my parents’ house at the end of the street, warm and welcoming with its yellow glow spilling from the windows.
“Why cookies?” I ask suddenly. “Why did you happen to have my favorite cookies with you in the middle of the woods?”
Luke’s steps slow slightly. “Does it matter?”
“I’m curious.”
“Maybe I just like cookies.”
“You hate cookies. You used to say they were too sweet. I’m surprised you even ate the one I gave you.”
His silence stretches long enough that I think he’s not going to answer. Then, quietly: “Maybe I was thinking about you.”
The admission hangs between us, vulnerable and unexpected. My breath catches, and for a moment I don’t know what to say. The careful walls I’ve built around my heart tremble dangerously.
“Luke—”
“Don’t.” His voice is rough now. “Don’t say anything. I’m not looking for anything, Hazel. I just— We were friends before. Good friends. We grew up together. Eight years is a long time. I want us to be friends again. That’s all.”
But the way he’s holding me, the careful tenderness in his grip, says otherwise. And the way my heart is responding—like it’s waking up after a long sleep—terrifies me.
We reach the edge of my parents’ yard, and Luke sets me down gently on the grass. My legs are steadier now, the cookies having done their work, but I miss his warmth immediately.
“Tomorrow,” he says, turning around, his hands coming to touch my waist in an old familiar action. I freeze but his hands lingering on my waist for just a moment before he steps back. “Two o’clock.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly cold without his body heat. “But I’m not agreeing to anything else.”
His grin is crooked, dangerous. “We’ll see about that.”
As he walks away with the dogs trotting beside him, I touch my fingers to my lips where his shoulder pressed against them during the ride home. The taste of maple sugar still lingers on my tongue, sweet and complicated and full of memories I’m not ready to examine.
Friends?
He didn’t ask for an answer, and I didn’t offer one.
Can our tainted past relationship survive simple friendship now?
Can my heart?
* * *
I’m surprised to find Sam at the breakfast table when I come downstairs the next morning, still dressed in his work clothes from yesterday. He’s hunched over a cup of coffee and what looks like Mom’s famous blueberry pancakes, but his expression is grim.
Mom is moving around the kitchen, refilling Dad’s coffee mug and checking something in the oven. Dad sits at his usual spot, reading the local newspaper and occasionally chuckling at something he finds amusing.
“You’re home early,” I say, settling into the chair across from Sam. “Or late?”
“Early.” He doesn’t look up from his plate. “We need to talk about your car.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach clench. “What about it?”
Sam takes a deep breath like he’s preparing to deliver bad news. “Okay, so you know how doctors sometimes have to tell people their loved ones didn’t make it?”
“Sam—”
“I’m like that doctor right now.” He finally meets my eyes with the most serious expression I’ve ever seen on his face. “Your car... didn’t make it.”
I blink at him. “What do you mean it didn’t make it? It drove me here from California!”
“Barely! That thing is held together by duct tape, prayers, and what I can only assume is some kind of ancient curse.” He starts counting on his fingers.
“The transmission is slipping so bad it’s basically playing slip-and-slide every time you shift gears.
The timing belt is hanging on by a thread—and I mean that literally, there’s actually a piece of string holding part of it together. ”
“String?” I interrupt, incredulous.
“String, Hazel! Who fixes a timing belt with string?” Sam throws his hands up dramatically.
“There’s an oil leak that’s turned the driveway into a modern art installation.
The brake pads are so thin they’re basically suggestions at this point, and I’m pretty sure something is living in your air filter. ”
Mom pauses to stare at Sam. “Something is living in the air filter?”
“I opened it up and heard squeaking. Could be mice. Could be a family of chipmunks. Could be the ghost of every car part that’s died trying to keep that thing running.
” Sam leans forward, his voice taking on the tone of someone trying to reason with a crazy person.
“Hazel, why didn’t you buy a new car when you’re making good money?
This Honda is older than some of my customers! ”
The question makes me shift uncomfortably in my chair. “I don’t like new things. I get attached to what I have. That car has been with me for eight years.”
Sam’s expression softens slightly, but then he rallies. “Hazel, your car isn’t just old. It’s archaeologically significant. I’m pretty sure the Smithsonian would want to study it.”
“It’s not that bad—”
“The radio only picks up AM stations from 1987, and somehow it’s still playing the same Def Leppard song that I’m sure it was playing when you bought it!”
I cross my arms defensively. “I like that song. Bringin’ on the Heartbreak is my jam. I know all the lyrics by heart.”
“It’s the same song, Hazel! For eight years! That’s not nostalgic, that’s cursed!” Sam runs both hands through his hair, clearly at his wit’s end. “Look, I can try to fix some of it, but honestly? You’d be better off pushing it off a cliff and collecting the insurance money.”
“I want my car back.”
“What car? At this point it’s more rust than metal. I’m pretty sure if I sneeze near it, the whole thing will disintegrate.”
I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “I don’t care if it runs on hopes and dreams. It’s my car, and I want it back.”
Sam throws his hands up in exasperation. “Take my truck then. It actually has working brakes and everything!”
“I don’t want your truck.”
“Then take the loaner! It’s a nice little Toyota that won’t require a tetanus shot to drive!”
“I don’t want the loaner either.”
“Then what do you want?” Sam raises his voice.
“My car!” I snap back.
“Your car is an automotive zombie!”
“I don’t care!”
“It’s going to break down in the middle of nowhere and you’ll be stranded!” He points out with a growl.
“Then I’ll walk!” I shrug.
“You can’t walk everywhere, Hazel!”
“Watch me!”
Mom sets down her coffee mug with a sharp clink. “Oh my goodness, you two sound exactly like you did when you were kids fighting over the last piece of pie.”
Dad looks up from his newspaper with an amused expression. “Sam, give your sister her death trap back.”
“Dad, you don’t understand. This isn’t just a car, it’s a mobile safety hazard.
I’m pretty sure it violates several laws of physics!
” Sam gestures wildly. “The speedometer doesn’t work, the gas gauge is permanently stuck on ‘E’ even when the tank is full, and yesterday I found a family of spiders that have apparently been living in the glove compartment for so long they’ve established their own municipal government! ”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Is she in immediate danger of spontaneous combustion or something?”
Sam deflates slightly. “Well... no. Probably not combustion. More like gradual mechanical failure leading to—”
“Then give her the car back.” Dad’s tone is final. “She’s a grown woman, Sam. If she wants to drive the automotive equivalent of a house of cards, that’s her choice.”
Mom nods in agreement. “Your sister survived eight years in Los Angeles traffic. I think she can handle whatever that car throws at her.”
“Thank you.” I smirk at my brother triumphantly. “I’ll pick it up this afternoon.”
Sam points an accusatory finger at me. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re calling AAA twice a week!”
“I won’t.”
“And when the transmission finally gives up the ghost and you’re stuck in first gear forever—”
“Sam,” Mom warns.
“And when the engine falls out onto the road because the mounts are held together with bubble gum and wishful thinking—”
“Samuel Thomas Brennen!” Mom’s voice takes on that tone that used to make us both freeze as children.
My brother throws his napkin down dramatically. “Fine! But I’m putting a disclaimer on the receipt. ‘Customer insisted on keeping vehicle despite mechanic’s professional recommendation of Viking funeral.’”
He stalks toward the door, then turns back one more time. “And for the record, when that thing finally dies—and it will die, probably while you’re driving it—I’m not fixing whatever you crash into when the brakes decide they’re done pretending to work!”
The front door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the windows.
Mom shakes her head, chuckling. “That boy gets more dramatic every year.”
Dad folds his newspaper and grins at me. “You know he’s just worried about you, right? He’s been fussing over that car all night like it personally offended him.”
“I know.” I settle back into my chair, suddenly feeling lighter. “I just missed having my own transportation. It’s nice to be independent again.”
“Well, independence is important,” Mom says, refilling my coffee cup. “Just promise me you’ll call if you need help.”
“I promise.”
After breakfast, I decide to walk into town again. The morning air feels good in my lungs, fresh and unspoiled in a way that LA air never was. The maple trees lining the street are even more brilliant than they were yesterday, and I find myself slowing my pace just to appreciate them.
I’m about halfway to Main Street when the sound of paws click on the pavement behind me. I turn to see a familiar golden retriever bounding toward me, his leash trailing behind him like a banner.
“Max?” I call out, and the dog immediately changes direction, heading straight for me.