Chapter 8 Claire
Claire
It has been four days since I ran into Jay — twice — and already, I can’t stop my brain from looping our interactions.
We don't live in a super small town. Okay, Maple Grove is basically a few quiet neighborhoods, the main strip where Enzo's is, and another set of streets with a few businesses, shops, or restaurants sprinkled about, but it's not that small.
So, the fact that I have now seen this guy two times in one day seems a little fated.
Have I seen him before today? I definitely would have noticed if I had, wouldn't I?
All I know is it's like this orange car came to town and knocked our very average-sized universe right off of its axis.
For the last ninety-six hours, I have tried to occupy my mind — tried to think of something else, anything else, besides him, but it’s like even in our short interactions, he’s left his mark.
Why? I’m not entirely sure, considering both ended pretty horrendously, but my brain doesn’t seem to care if he was interested or not.
I put on chapstick, and I picture the way Jay brushed the end of his cigarette across his lips as he walked past me at Busy’s.
I read, and the main male character suddenly has hazel eyes and tattoos despite how the author's description. It doesn’t help that a mix of menthol and motor oil still sits in my car, so I can’t even go anywhere without a reminder of him.
Since when are cigarettes and engine grease the opposite of gross?
By now I have completely exhausted all attempts at distracting myself on my own. So, I text the only person I can think of that could possibly help. Either she will entertain me to the point of forgetting, or she will meet my level of crazy and join me in fixating on everything that happened.
ME: Movie and takeout?
CHLOE: God, yes! Come over?
ME: On my way.
Why can’t all interactions be this simple?
Chloe is already an hour into Armageddon when I get to her apartment. She’s sitting in the corner of the couch, her spot, with a bun on top of her head and fuzzy Christmas socks on her feet. She’s wrapped in her favorite cheetah print blanket, a glass of red wine half-full in her hand.
“I was already watching when you texted. We can call for food in a minute,” she says without looking away from the screen.
“Starting early?” She looks at me and I point to the glass in her hand.
“It’s my first one. You know how I get when Ben sings to Liv before he leaves.
Plus, it’s really not that early.” She’s right on both accounts.
She sobs when Ben Affleck belts out Leaving on a Jet Plane while holding Liv Tyler before he enters the shuttle and it is 3 pm.
I have seen Chloe consume alcohol at such early hours of the day that it makes her drink look like a nightcap.
I walk over to my spot on the couch, the side with the chaise, and shove my now bare feet under the lip of her blanket.
This is good. I feel better. I’m cozy, with my best friend, and watching a group of drillers plan to stop an asteroid from destroying all mankind.
What could be better than this? I’m already thinking of so many things that aren’t… what’s his name again?
Chloe pauses the movie right before the song and turns to me. “Okay, before this gets started. What’s up?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean, we have been off for like two weeks now and until today you have been Miss. I-Have-Tutoring or Miss. I-Have-Laundry or
Miss. I-Have-to-Think-of-the-Next-Little-Women.”
“Little Women?” I interrupt. “Really?”
“You know what I mean. This is the first time you have wanted to make a plan to do something fun. So,” she sips her wine, “What’s up?”
I purse my lips. I met Chloe during open interviews at Jefferson.
We graduated college the same year, with the same degree, and bonded quickly over our love of caffeine and matching JCrew pencil skirts.
Following the interviews, I was fortunate enough to secure a contract in my own classroom and Chloe got hired as an instructional assistant.
Luckily for both of us, she was assigned to three rooms, one of which was mine.
It was pretty much grunt work for eight hours a day but now she has a job she loves, teaching reading support at the elementary school two towns over.
Turns out the whole position was just a stepping stone for her.
Thankfully our friendship was more permanent than that.
We haven’t known each other all that long, but our friendship is the type that feels like we’ve been friends forever.
From the very start, we were close. We quickly developed inside jokes and bad habits of oversharing about everything.
Me texting her when I had a suspicious rash and her sending me unsolicited dick pics she got from guys she was texting.
When people meet us they assume we’re childhood friends.
We just get each other, which is why she knows now that something is up.
“Nothing,” I say almost too casually, but I am determined to not open the floodgates by bringing up He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.
“Liar,” she says matter-of-factly, sipping on her wine.
“I am not!”
“You are too. You’re making the same face you made before we were friends and I wore those red leather pants and you told me they looked very Oops!…I Did It Again.
“Well, they did look very Britney,” I say.
“Yeah! Like shave her head and smash a car window, Britney!” The wine in her hand sloshes as she mimics the infamous scene.
“Those pants were terrible,” I admit.
“Well, I know that now. But had I known your face three years ago, I would have known it then too.”
“Okay!” I blurt out because, honestly, I am too weak to hold it in any longer. “I met a guy.”
“You met a guy?”
“I met a guy.”
She flicks off the TV and turns her whole body toward me, sitting up so she is in her I’m really listening stance.
“He works at Monroe’s. He dropped the Maverick off when I was at Dad’s.”
“Ooh, a mechanic. Good with his hands.” She winks and I ignore her.
“I drove him back to the garage in possibly the most uncomfortable silence. But then I saw him again on my way to the library yesterday.”
“A mechanic that reads?” She asks, her face tilted.
“No, I was getting a coffee and he was smoking outside.”
“Ah, a mechanic that smokes. Now that makes way more sense.” She nods her head like all is right again in the world.
“Correct. And I don’t know what it is, but I can’t seem to shake him.”
Chloe lets out an ear-piercing squeal. “Claire! This is so exciting!”
I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat. “It’s really not.”
“I’m serious!” she continues. “You haven’t even talked about a guy since what’s his name.”
“Mark,” I say.
“Right, since what’s his name latka-ed the hell out of some other girl’s potatoes.”
“I’m pretty positive that makes absolutely no sense,” I say.
“You know what I mean. This is great! Now I get to hear about your guy stuff for once.” Chloe has been going on horrible date after horrible date for quite a while, and although it’s fun hearing about her misfortunes, I’m sure she appreciates some reciprocation on the subject.
“Well, don’t get too excited. He barely knows I exist.”
She grabs her phone from the end table. “Well, that’s fine. We’ll just—”
“He doesn’t have social media,” I interrupt. “I checked.” It wasn’t my finest moment going all crazy-girl detective, but around hour forty-eight, I had to do something.
“Not what I’m doing,” she says and now I’m the one who gets into my I’m really listening stance because what else could she possibly be looking for?
“Got 'em!” She yells after another few seconds.
“Got what…?”
She stands and slides out of her fuzzy socks and into her flip-flops. “The hours of one, Monroe’s Motors.” My lips part but I’m not even really sure what to think let alone say.
“Come on silly!” She calls from the kitchen, grabbing her keys off the counter. “I think I’m due for an oil change.”