8. Caius #2
"Good at that." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Right."
"I'm serious. We're both adults. We can acknowledge that the physical chemistry is there without making it into some big emotional thing."
"Some big emotional thing." The words taste bitter coming back out of my mouth, like acid. "Jesus Christ, Hallie."
"Stop repeating everything I say." Her voice has an edge to it now, defensive and sharp.
"Stop saying things that are complete bullshit!" I grab my shirt from where she dropped it on the floor, yanking it over my head. "You know what? Fine. You want to pretend last night meant nothing? Go ahead. But don't expect me to play along."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm done with the fake dating." I shove my feet into my boots, not bothering to tie them. "Find someone else to be your plus one. I'm out."
"You can't just quit."
"Watch me."
"Caius, please." She grabs my arm as I head for the door. "Madison is still downstairs. If you leave now, she'll see you."
"So let her see me." I turn to face her, and whatever she sees in my expression makes her drop her hand. "You're so worried about what everyone will think. About being the good girl, the reliable one, never making waves. Well, guess what? I don't care anymore."
"You don't mean that."
"I mean every word." I head for the door again, then stop with my hand on the knob. "For what it's worth? You were never a bucket list item. You were the whole damn list. The only thing I ever wanted."
Her breath catches, but she doesn't say anything.
I leave through the bedroom door, taking the stairs two at a time. Madison is in the living room, arms full of burlap bags, and her eyes go wide when she sees me.
"Caius? What are you?—"
"Morning, Madison," I manage, forcing something that probably looks more like a grimace than a smile. My jaw is so tight I can barely get the words out. "I was just leaving."
I'm out the front door before she can respond, but I hear her yell up the stairs as I'm climbing into my truck.
"Hallie Marie Miller! Get down here right now!"
I peel out of her driveway harder than necessary, my hands tight on the steering wheel.
This is why I don't do feelings. This is why I've spent thirteen years keeping my distance, watching her from the sidelines, never crossing that line.
Because when you finally get what you want and then lose it? It's worse than never having it at all.
My phone rings before I'm even out of her neighborhood. I glance at the screen.
Ryan: Poker night at my place tomorrow. You in?
Perfect. Just perfect.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat without answering and drive.
The shop is closed on Sundays, which means I have the place to myself. I unlock the garage, flip on the lights, and stare at the vintage Mustang I've been restoring for the past six months.
It's a beauty. Cherry red, 1967, original everything. The engine purrs like a dream now that I've rebuilt the carburetor.
I should feel proud looking at it. This is good work, solid, honest work. The kind of work that built this shop from nothing, that put food on the table, that proved I could make something of myself despite where I came from.
Instead, I feel hollow. Empty in a way that no amount of engine grease and elbow grease can fix.
I grab a wrench and get under the car anyway. If I can't fix my own mess, at least I can fix something.
I'm elbow-deep in the undercarriage, my shoulders wedged against cold metal, when I hear the telltale sound of footsteps echoing across the concrete floor of the garage.
"We're closed," I call out, my voice slightly muffled from my position beneath the Mustang. I don't bother sliding out to look, assuming it's just someone who didn't notice the sign on the door. "Come back Monday."
"Good." The voice is familiar, warm, maternal. "Then you can't charge me for this conversation, and I won't have to worry about you hiding under that car all day to avoid talking to me."
I brace my hands against the cold concrete and use my feet to push the creeper out from under the Mustang, the wheels squeaking softly in protest. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh after the shadowy cocoon beneath the car, making me squint as my eyes adjust. When my vision clears, I find my mother standing in the wide doorway of the garage, framed by the grey afternoon light filtering in from outside.
Her hands are planted firmly on her hips, and she's wearing that particular expression, the one with the slight furrow between her brows and the set of her mouth that's not quite a frown but definitely not approval.
It's the same look that used to terrify me as a kid, the one that meant she knew exactly what I'd done wrong before I'd even opened my mouth to lie about it.
I sit up slowly, wiping my grease-stained hands on the rag hanging from my back pocket, buying myself a few seconds to gather my thoughts. "Ma," I say finally, injecting as much casual surprise into my voice as I can manage. "What are you doing here?"
"Maura O'Connor didn't raise a fool, boy. Well, most of the time." She walks into the shop, her sensible shoes clicking on the concrete. "You want to tell me why you looked like someone shot your dog when you left dinner last night?"
"I looked fine."
"You looked like a man in love who just realized the girl doesn't love him back.
" She crosses her arms, her stance settling into that immovable posture that means she's not leaving without answers.
Her eyes narrow slightly, reading me the way she's been doing since I was six years old and swore I hadn't eaten the cookies she'd been saving for the church bake sale. "So. Hallie."
My chest tightens, that familiar defensiveness rising up like a wall. I push myself fully upright, the creeper rolling back slightly beneath me. "What about her?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Caius. I've changed your diapers and I know when you're dodging.
" She steps closer, her gaze sharp and assessing in that way only mothers can manage.
"Is the relationship real, or are you two pulling my leg?
Because if you are, it's a cruel joke to play on people who care about you both. "
I sit up, wiping grease from my hands onto a rag. There's no point lying to my mother. She has a sixth sense for nonsense.
"Started fake. Got real. At least for me." I toss the rag aside. "She's not interested."
"Not interested?" Ma's eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline, and she lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Boy, please. That girl looked at you last night like you personally hung the moon and every single star in the sky. Like you painted the sunset just for her entertainment."
I shake my head, jaw tightening as I peek at the undercarriage of the Chevy above me, avoiding her knowing gaze. "She's a good actress, Ma. Better than I gave her credit for."
"Caius Michael O'Connor." Ma only uses my full name when she's about to deliver a truth bomb. "I have known Hallie Miller since she was in diapers. That girl doesn't have a deceptive bone in her body. If she looked at you like that, she meant it."
"Then why did she call last night a mistake?" The words come out bitter. "Why did she tell me to leave this morning and pretend it never happened?"
Ma sighs and sits down on an overturned crate. "Because she's scared, you stubborn man. Just like you've been scared for thirteen years."
"I'm not scared."
"Please. You've been in love with that girl since you were a teenager and you never said a word. Not because of Ryan, not because of the class difference. Because you were terrified she'd look at you and see just the poor kid her family took in."
The words hit too close to home. I look away.
"She doesn't see you that way," Ma says gently. "But she's got her own fears. She's spent her whole life being the good daughter, the reliable sister, the girl who colors inside the lines. Of course she's panicking now that she's done something impulsive. Something just for herself."
"So what am I supposed to do?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend. The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with years of unspoken longing and missed chances.
Ma pushes herself up from the crate with a soft grunt, her knees protesting the movement.
She brushes off her pants with deliberate, practical strokes, the same way she's done a thousand times before after sitting in my garage, offering wisdom I'm usually too stubborn to take.
When she looks at me, her expression is equal parts exasperation and affection.
"Fight for her," she says simply, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world. "You've never been afraid of hard work, Caius. You've rebuilt engines from scrap, turned this garage into something from nothing. Don't start being afraid now—not when it matters most."
She kisses my forehead and leaves me sitting there, surrounded by tools and car parts and the ghost of lavender laundry detergent.
My phone goes off again.
This time it's not Ryan.
Hallie: I'm sorry.
Three hours later, another text.
Hallie: Can we talk?
I stare at the messages until the screen goes dark, my thumb hovering over the keyboard a dozen times before I pull away.
The urge to type back, to tell her it's okay, that I understand, that I'll take whatever scraps of herself she's willing to give me, is almost overwhelming.
It's the same instinct that's kept me orbiting her for thirteen years, never quite landing, never quite leaving.
But Ma's words are still echoing in my head. Fight for her. And sometimes fighting means not giving in to the easy answer.
I set the phone face-down on the workbench. Then I grab my wrench and get back to work on Mrs. Chen's Honda, forcing myself to focus on the seized bolt instead of the ache that's been in my heart since Hallie walked out of my apartment three days ago.
Because right now, I don't trust myself to respond without saying something I'll regret.
Or worse, something that'll make me forgive her before she's ready to let herself be forgiven.