10. Troy
Milly stayed at my place for a little while longer. She spent that time jibing me about being in Charlie’s house, but I was swift in putting her straight.
“There is nothing going on, Milly. You need to curb your active imagination,” I said firmly.
My little sister cocked her head to the side and gave me a knowing smile. “Please tell me you are not that blind?”
I frowned and shook my head. “What are you talking about?”
“Troy,” she sighed heavily. “Really, I wonder whether you have eyes. Did you not see the way Charlie was looking at you? Did you not see her disappointment when you said we needed to go?”
“No,” I lied. “If anything, she probably felt relief.”
“Now I know there’s something wrong with you. What did those French chefs do to you?” Milly moved around the kitchen, looking like she was in deep thought. “I remember a time when you always knew the very thing Charlie was thinking. Maybe you’re losing your touch.”
“Maybe I am. But the fact remains. From what I saw, Charlie was glad to be rid of me.”
It was another lie, but it was for the greater good. I didn’t want Milly to get any ideas. Clearly, it was a little late for that, but I certainly wasn’t going to give her any encouragement.
She’s been gone for about an hour now, and as I sit here in my living room, her words are playing over and over in my head. Of course, I noticed Charlie’s disappointment. What I now have to figure out is how to keep the momentum going.
And then, suddenly, I have a brilliant idea. Grabbing the keys, I head out to the truck. I need to go to town and pick up some things.
* * *
I wake the following morning a little earlier than usual. I don’t know if Charlie has any clients today, and I want to get this thing done before she needs to leave. The simple fact is that if I don’t, she can’t go anywhere at any rate.
The good thing about Cherryville is that it’s a relatively safe town. So safe, in fact, that most people don’t lock their cars at night. As I walk up Charlie’s driveway, I’m hoping that’s the case with her; otherwise, this surprise I have planned will fall flat on its face.
To my delight, the car is, indeed, unlocked. I pop the hood, move to the front of the car, and drop the bag of tools I picked up yesterday on the ground beside me. I look down at the intricate wiring and pipes of the immaculately clean engine with a slight sense of bewilderment.
“Right.”
I’ll be honest: it’s been a long time since I’ve messed around with cars, and I’m now a little worried that I might have let my arrogance run away with me. The latest cars have everything but a microwave oven under the hood, and for a second, I feel a rush of overwhelm.
“Come on, man. You can do this.”
The thing is, all gasoline cars run on the same basic principles, which means that while modern technology has advanced, the same problems are—well, the same as they always were.
Taking a deep breath, I grab the tools I need and get to work. I also say a silent prayer to anyone who might happen to be listening that I don’t wreck some important component of the car and make the situation ten times worse.
* * *
“What are you doing?” Charlie’s voice comes from my left about an hour later.
When I push myself up to face her, she’s looking at me with wide eyes and her mouth open in confusion.
“Oh, just in time,” I say with a grin. “Have you got the keys?”
For a second, Charlie doesn’t react. She’s still looking a little bewildered, mixed with a large dose of shock. Clearly, she has no clients today, because she’s standing beside me in a thin-strapped tank top and baggy jeans. It takes all my effort not to linger on the slight tan of her skin and the crevices of her collar bones.
“The keys?” she says eventually.
“Yes. You know. Those things you put into the ignition to start the car. They’re usually attached to a ring of some sort,” I reply dryly.
“Right. Right,” she says, still reeling from the sight of me.
I suppose I do look a bit of a mess. My hands are covered in the usual muck you find around any engine, and I’m pretty sure I wiped my face with a dirty hand earlier; with my tribal stripes, I probably look like one of those blue people from Avatar.
Charlie disappears into the house and returns a moment later with the car keys.
“Start her up,” I say, wiping my hands on a cloth I was wise enough to bring.
She slips into the driver’s seat, and the first time the key turns in the ignition, the car roars to life and starts.
Yes!
I will admit. I am pretty proud of myself. Without the keys, I didn’t know if it was the spark plugs, the air filter, the high-tension leads, or the distribution cap, so I checked them all. As it happens, there was some condensation in the distribution cap, and I’m pretty sure that was the problem.
“Oh, my gosh!” Charlie says, now standing by my side again. “What did you do?”
“Well, first I took the entire engine apart, and then I rebuilt her from scratch,” I say with as straight a face as possible. “I’ve been out here since four this morning.”
“You have not!” she gasped.
I chuckle and shake my head. “No. I haven’t. It was a simple fix.”
Her eyes fall to the tool bag by my feet. “You got those from your dad?” she asks.
I hesitate for the slightest of seconds. “Yes,” I say.
Charlie gives me a long look. “No, you didn’t. You’re as bad a liar now as you ever were, Troy Heaton. You went out and bought all of those things, didn’t you? Oh, Lord. That must have cost a fortune.”
I raise my hands to stop her from getting herself more flustered. “First of all, it did not cost a fortune. Second of all, it was all the stuff I was going to have to buy sooner or later when I get my own wheels.”
“Yes, sooner or later,” Charlie argues. “Not now.” She turns away toward the house. “I need to get my purse.”
“Charlie. Wait.”
But she ignores my protest and carries on toward the house. I have no choice but to follow her. She’s left the door open, but I don’t go inside. I haven’t been invited, and thus, I wait on the doorstep. When she returns, she’s rooting around in her purse and mumbling to herself.
“Charlie, please,” I say, my hands raised once again. “I don’t want any money.”
“I don’t care,” she replies. “You’ve gone out and bought tools just to fix my car. If nothing else, I need to pay for your time.”
“No, you don’t,” I argue. “In fact, if you try to give me money, I’ll be insulted.”
She lifts her head up and looks at me. “So?”
“I’ll be offended,” I try again.
“And?” she presses.
“If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s your stubbornness,” I counter.
“Stubborn I may be, but I won’t take advantage of your help. I know what you’re doing, Troy.”
Her words halt me, and for a second, I don’t know what to say. Has she figured out that I’m trying to win her back? Have my actions been that blatant?
“And what am I doing?” I ask, nearly terrified to hear the answer.
“It’s obvious. You’re trying to make up for…” she trails off.
Her face falls, and in that second, I see the pain I’ve caused her. Not all of it. Up until now, she’s been so guarded around me that her emotions over what I’ve done to her have been tightly bound inside. But for a split second, I see the chink in her armor, and beaming out of it is the remnants of the anguish she felt. The anguish I’ve caused.
And then it’s gone. In the blink of an eye.
Selfishly, I don’t want to see it again. At some point, we need to talk about it, especially if I want to win her back. But I’m just not ready yet. Instead of acknowledging it, I say, “Okay. Here’s a compromise. When the restaurant opens, I’ll charge you double for your first meal. How does that sound?”
She’s looking at me with an expression of disbelief. “Who says I’m going to come and eat at your restaurant in the first place?”
I’m a little hurt, but I hide it. I just assumed she would, given our history and the way she looked the other day when I dragged Milly out of her house.
“Well, I, you know…” I fumble.
She suddenly grins. “I’m joking, Troy. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” Then, without giving me a chance to react, her face changes again. “But I know what you did to my car would have cost a fortune, and paying double for one meal just won’t cover it.”
“Then buy two,” I quip without missing a beat.
She tilts her head to the side and shakes it. “You are incorrigible. Do you know that?”
“If I knew what the word meant, I might,” I say, smirking back.
“Uh-huh,” she counters, clearly not believing me. “Don’t give me that. You were always terrible at math, but I know English was your forte.”
I shrug and play dumb. “You mean, when I wasn’t playing hooky and messing around with cars?”
“Well, clearly it wasn’t a waste,” she replies, throwing a hand out to the vehicle standing beside us.
There is an awkward moment then, with neither of us knowing what else to say. And as time goes on, I realize that I need to get out of here.
“Right. I’ve got to get going. I have work to do.”
“Yes. Yes, me too,” she says with the conviction of a wet paper bag.
I want to stay, but this isn’t the right time. Besides, the professional cleaning service I hired will be at the restaurant in about a half hour. I really do need to get a move on.