Chapter 4
Claire
Summers off are always weird. It’s like fantasy and reality coexist. Like you’re on vacation where days blur together, but you’re also living your real life.
It’s like you want to feel like possibilities are endless and responsibilities are nonexistent, but really, it’s your boredom that’s endless and your paychecks nonexistent.
I’m pulling my sweat-soaked hair into a loose top knot when the car finally turns onto the street.
I hear it before I see it, the revving of the engine so out of place in this quiet neighborhood.
As the orange muscle car approaches the driveway I’m reminded of how nice it is.
Knowing absolutely zero about cars, I have no idea what the big deal is with how it’s built or the custom paint, but even a motor moron like me can see the thing is stunning.
The sunlight dances off the windshield as it turns into the open spot next to my white Nissan, making it look impressively average in comparison.
I stand, pulling down my shorts that have now been swallowed by my slick thighs, and stroll over to the driver’s side of the car.
The way the sun is positioned on the window I can’t quite see inside but I do catch a glimpse of my reflection.
Despite my lack of makeup, my cheeks are pink, thanks to the heat, and I did manage to swipe just a covering of mascara to my already dark lashes.
Being home alone most of the day, I’ll take any excuse to at least do something with my appearance.
The owner of Monroe’s has done the inspections and oil changes on all of our cars for as long as I can remember.
He is right around my dad’s age, and unfortunately already balding.
His height is (very) slightly below average and his beer belly is (very) slightly above average, but he’s a nice enough guy.
Nice enough that I respect him more than just rolling out of bed, but these last twenty minutes have pretty much shot any effort right to Hell.
The window lowers slowly and…wait a second…
that’s not Zeke. Staring back at me is like a blonde, grease monkey version of Adam Levine, but with more muscle.
My eyes scan him quickly, following the length of his tattooed biceps down to his grip on the steering wheel, and judging by the vein in his forearm alone, yep, definitely more muscle.
I mean, he’s not even Zeke-adjacent. I catch myself staring just a second too late when the guy behind the wheel clears his throat.
“Do you mind?” His voice is low and dull. He’s looking at me with a blank expression and hazel eyes that are quite possibly piercing my soul as we speak.
I close my still-parted lips. “Excuse me?”
A blank expression stares back at me. Mystery Man blinks twice and moves his hand to the door handle. Good Lord those eyes.
Nodding out the window he clarifies, “Do you mind?”
“Oh!” I all but jump out of the way of the door. “Of course, sorry about that.”
Unlike Zeke, this guy is right around my age and although his light hair is clipped short, almost military style, he is absolutely not balding.
He stands at much more of an (above) average height and has much less (zero) beer belly.
However, the stern face he wears mixed with the curt, “It’s all good,” he throws my way, tells me that, unlike Zeke, he is not necessarily a nice enough guy.
“I was expecting someone else,” I clarify as I watch his left bicep flex beneath his shirt sleeve as he shuts the car door. Fully extended, I see this arm’s tattoos — a tiger, a rose with thorns, and…is that a naked lady?
The distraction causes me to ramble on about my dad, the car, Zeke, and the time, and all too late I realize that I’m spiraling. So, in my attempt to reverse this unfortunate moment I finish off my monologue with a way too chippy, “But here you are!” Good one Claire.
Seemingly unbothered by my attempt at pleasantry, Mr. Personality shoves both hands in his pockets and simply echoes, “Here I am.”
I’m starting to get the feeling this guy is incapable of stringing more than three words together when he adds, “Zeke got tied up with something so he asked me to come instead.” I offer an understanding nod, shocked by his abundance of words.
He pulls his right hand from his pocket, offering me the keys.
I take note of the tattoos that this arm reveals as it is stretched towards me.
A bird spans the inside of his forearm, the silhouette of a person on the outside, and just above that, some sort of angel that is partially covered by his sleeve.
Admittedly, he might have had his wrist dangling there longer than I realize because he lets out a slight huff and jingles the keys.
“Actually…” I pause hoping he’ll fill the space with his name.
“Jay.”
Hmm, simple. Shocker.
“Actually Jay, do you mind pulling it into the garage for me? I have no idea what I am doing with that thing and my dad would kill me if I scratched it.”
His eyes glint with the slightest sparkle of — Is that joy? — but then it quickly fades.
“Not a problem.” And, we’re back to the three-word thing.
Turning back to the car, I can’t help but notice how his shirt strains to accommodate his back muscles.
I press the code for the garage into the keypad and watch the door smoothly roll open.
Jay turns the engine, revving it just slightly, before parking it safely inside.
He opens the door, but not before grabbing a small teal box from the passenger seat.
Is that a pack of cigarettes? Do people still smoke those?
And then it’s like deja vu as he once again waves his wrist at me, offering me the keys.
This time I take them, noticing the grease stains hiding under his fingernails.
“Thank you. I know my dad appreciates this.”
“It’s an awesome car. Can’t believe he wants to sell it in the first place.”
“Wow.” I say it out loud by accident, but I am just shocked at the length of that sentence. “I mean, yeah, it’s a long story. It was my grandfather’s.” I play with the key ring waiting for him to decide what’s next.
He raises his head just slightly in understanding, his face suddenly breaking from indifference to what seems slightly sad.
“Alright well, I’m going to take off…” This time it’s him who offers a pause for my name.
“Claire.”
“Claire,” Jay repeats and the way my name suddenly sounds so foreign to me catches me off guard — in a good way.
“Take care.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets and turns towards the street.
It’s only when he’s halfway down the driveway that I realize that he’s leaving and for some strange, masochistic reason, I don’t want him to.
This man has said a total of twenty words to me and none of them have been particularly nice, yet I don’t want him to go.
He also has no ride.
“Jay!” I call out suddenly both sounding and feeling desperate. “Do you want a ride? Back to Monroe’s I mean?” I stand there like an eager puppy waiting for a treat.
“Nah, it’s cool.” Turning back to look at me he shakes his head and points his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s not far. I’ll walk.”
“Are you sure? I seriously don’t mind.”
He nods, “I’m sure,” then turns and continues leaving. He gets only a few more feet before I call after him again.
“Come on, don’t be silly. My mom would damn me to Hell if I didn’t drive you back. Please? For the sake of my soul?” Okay, seriously, now I’m begging.
I guess the third time’s the charm because, after a two-second pause that felt like an eternity, he starts walking towards my SUV.
I run to the hook inside the garage that holds my parents’ keys and drop the Maverick’s.
Reaching into my pocket, I offer him a satisfied smile before clicking the button on my own keys to unlock the doors.
I get in first, then him, and when he reaches for his seatbelt, his shirt rises just enough to reveal the slightest sliver of the skin above his jeans.
All of a sudden the heat outside is nothing compared to what I feel in here.
Completely unaware of the effect he has on me, he clicks his buckle down and looks at me waiting for me to do the same.
Again, with the eyes-piercing-my-soul thing!
I repeat the gesture, start the car, and crank the A.C. up to full blast. You’re being ridiculous, I think to myself.
Besides, it’s one mile.
How bad could it be?