10. Colton
ten
Colton
"P retend none of this happened.” Yeah, right. And how am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to forget the look of panic on her face, the blotches on her neck? How am I supposed to forget I did this to her?
I scared her away. I shouldn’t have come onto her like that.
She’s better than that.
But how was I supposed to do it? We’ve always been open with each other. I wanted to date her, so I told her. How did she jump to the conclusion that I just wanted us to be fuck buddies?
Does she think so little of me?
I guess she doesn’t feel for me what I feel for her. That’s the only answer I can think of. I could have sworn though, during that kiss… and the way she looked at me in the days that followed… I really thought there was something way more than friendship building between us. I thought wrong. I assumed , based on what I was feeling.
Another mistake.
Will our friendship ever recover from what I did? Me forcing myself as her fake boyfriend was bad enough—not to mention the kiss. But this?
See, this is why people should take better care of their cars. None of this would have happened if Kiara’d let me do regular checkups of her Corolla. Changed what needed to be changed before she was stranded. The Corolla would have started without a hiccup, she’d have gone alone to Eloise’s birthday party, she’d have survived it just fine without my intervention, and we’d still be friends—no awkwardness.
But no. She pretends she can’t afford the regular maintenance, or doesn’t want me to work for free, and look where we are now.
I stare at her dessert, feeling guilty I didn’t memorize its name. I thought we were going to have a long evening of kissing and cuddling, and more if she was up for it, and we’d get to this little work of art later at night, maybe spoon-feeding each other. She’d ask me what I thought of it, and of course I’d be wowed because everything Kiara makes is perfection, but she’d push and push until I came up with something that could use improvement, and she’d take notes on her phone and finally be content.
It was going to be perfect.
Instead, the little edible Christmas tree sits on my countertop untouched, like a silent reproach—the memory of what should have been. I place it in the fridge, then plop on the couch with the plan to play video games until Kiara comes back (you never know) or I fall asleep.
Neither happens. Once 4:00 a.m. comes around I get into the shower in hopes of washing away last night’s bitter taste, then get ready for work.
Opening the fridge to take a slug of orange juice, I’m jolted by Kiara’s dessert staring at me. I’m not coming back to this reminder tonight, so I take it with me to the garage.
The guys will be happy.
I pull into Harper’s Body Works at five, the moon still bright, early workers driving by me on the main road in and out of Emerald Creek.
Merritt, who owned the garage before me and taught me pretty much everything I know, used to say that we mechanics provide one of the most essential services to this world. Sure, a couple professions—he called them trades— were more important. Like doctors and teachers. But try getting to the doctor’s or to school by foot or on a horse. Doable? Sure. Just a helluva pain in the neck.
We’re the lubricant that keeps the cogs of society turning, and Merritt taught me to take pride in my work here for my community. Again, according to Merritt, there’s a reason beyond mere convenience that we’re located a mile and a half outside the center of town, before the first houses.
We’re the first and last stop people make going in and out of their hometown. Filling up their gas tanks, checking their tires, their levels of fluids. Really, they’re checking in with themselves as they go about their lives.
I like to think of us as the beacon on these first shift workers’ route.
The light is on in the reception area and in the bays, and fresh snow tracks lead to the back of the garage, where my staff and I park our cars. My lead mechanic Orson’s truck is there, ticking softly off.
“Hey, boss,” Orson greets me as I step into the reception area. He glances up from the computer, steaming coffee mug in hand. “Just made a fresh batch. Ooh, what’s that you got?” he says, looking at the dessert.
I grunt, “Kiara made this.”
“Inn’t she precious, always spoiling us. How come she’s not coming by today?”
I shrug. Kiara’s been bringing muffins every Monday morning “because it’s the start of the week” and cupcakes every Wednesday “because it’s hump day.” She’s become like most people in Emerald Creek—in everyone’s business in the kindest sort of way. The way that made the garden club offer to add window boxes and planters to the garage “to cheer up the entrance of Emerald Creek” the moment Merritt sold the business to me. He and his wife took to the RV life, and it was clear I didn’t have a green thumb.
“She wasn’t sure she could make it,” I answer. Maybe it’s a lie, and maybe it isn’t. I guess I’ll find out.
“Everythin’ okay?” Orson asks. Kiara never misses one of her self-appointed deliveries.
“Uh, sure. Far’s I know.”
“That’s some fancy shmancy thing she made,” he says. “Inn’t she something?”
I pour coffee in my cup, forcing myself to act normal, and overall be a good boss. It’s not my fault I made a shit decision that’s making me cranky. “You’re here early,” I say to make conversation without talking about Kiara. “Your old lady finally kick you out?”
His body shakes with soft laughter. Orson is living his fifties with a “fuck it” philosophy that’s resulted in an ever-growing beer belly, high cholesterol, and a couple of heart scares. But he and his wife of thirty years are still madly in love, and she’s entirely devoted to him and their family.
“Nah, she wants us to go pick the grandkids from daycare and take them for pictures with Santa. Figured I’d get an early start and scoot outta here by one.”
“Sure! What do we got today?” I ask, pointing at the computer where today’s appointments are listed.
“Parker’s beamer. Regular maintenance.”
I grunt. Owen Parker is not my favorite person. “What else?”
“Eh, there’s the Corvette with the faulty exhaust pipe. Wanna take that?” he asks me.
Hell yeah, I want to work on that. Who wouldn’t? We have a reputation for our work on vintage cars, but we don’t get to work on a 1966 Stingray that often, if ever. “You should take it,” I say. Orson is more experienced than me in that area.
He tilts his head and ticks his tongue. “Might not have time to finish it. And you could use the practice.”
All good points. “Okay.” The client dropped her last night, so I down my coffee to get right to work. Anything to keep my mind off Kiara. “I’ll call if I need you,” I say before stepping into the bay. Orson follows me to get started on a couple of oil changes and filter replacements.
I slide under the car and try to shut off the outside world to focus on the task at hand. The old exhaust is showing lots of rust spots, the bolts fused to the connections—mainly the exhaust manifold and the flanges. I grab the penetrating oil and hit each connection. Then I take my ratchet and get to work.
We work in relative silence for the next hour or so, until the rest of my crew shows up. First Linwood, the other old timer who, like Orson, came with the shop. Then Patrick, the tire specialist I hired a couple of years ago. Then, finally, two apprentices, the names of which I may not bother to remember if they keep showing up late every day.
I roll out from under the Corvette to get them squared away with their tasks for the day, then focus back on my work rather than obsess over how I seem to fuck up with women, not understand them one way or another.
This work I created for myself, it’s good. Familiar. Controllable. Down to the smell of grease, the whooshing of a hydraulic pumping up in the next bay, the clanking of a dropped tool, the occasional swearing. It’s something I know and understand and control.
Kiara said, “Pretend none of this ever happened”, and this is the only way I can try and do that. Focusing on the stuff I understand. The stuff that makes me feel good. Fixing cars. Taking something that’s not working and making it work. This is my world.
I fix things.
As far as fixing relationships, different story.
My ex, Valerie, used to insist she didn’t dislike the smell of grease on me when I came home at night and tried to scrub off the nastiness in the shower. She said it gave me an edge. She had fun naming my garage, Harper’s Body Works, even designed a logo for it. It only took me the few months we lived together to understand she got off on being with a guy from what she considered to be the wrong side of the tracks. Someone who worked getting his hands dirty.
I was a little slow on the uptake, but to be honest when she packed her bags it didn’t hurt. Even when she said, “you’re gonna miss me,” and for a little while I sort of did. I missed having company. I didn’t really miss her .
When Kiara said, “Can we pretend none of this ever happened?” it hurt like hell. Like I’d done something disgusting to her. I can’t even blame her. Or be angry at her. I wasn’t smooth at all. I was blunt, and Kiara is anything but blunt.
Not to draw comparisons, but with Valerie, it went very differently. Her parents owned a vacation home around here. We hooked up—at my place, obviously. Repeatedly.
Took me three months to realize her parents had sold their house. At the time, I was working super hard building up the garage with not enough staff, so I think I get a pass for not figuring that out sooner.
That wasn’t why we broke up. She wanted me to move with her “out West”, where she was convinced her artistic talent would be better rewarded, and so would my skills in repairing vintage cars.
That’s when I understood she thought we were together. So I suppose it was a breakup for her. Not for me. For me, it was just the end of a long hookup that was beginning to wear off, if I’m honest.
With Kiara, it’s entirely different. Opposite. I want to build something with her, and the error I made was to not give it enough time and thought. I took for granted that she was of the same mindset. Mistake.
I wiggle the old exhaust pipe free from its hangers, surprised, like always, by the weight of it. I roll out from under the car, ready for a quick coffee before I tackle attaching the new exhaust. This is going to be tricky, what with the Stingray having a fiberglass body, and this model having a side-exit exhaust.
Exactly what I need to keep my mind off Kiara.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Orson calls out. Happiness seeps into his rocky voice. It can only mean one thing.
“Hey, guys! Got your favorites today—lemon, poppy seed, and chocolate.” Just the sound of her voice makes me all soft. I roll from under the Corvette and wipe my hands.
“You didn’t need to do that!” Orson exclaims. “We got that little beauty here.”
I step into the reception area right in time to see Kiara’s gaze on her Christmas dessert, flinching for half a second. “Oh! That was a little surprise for you guys,” she says, her voice cheery. “I know you’re partial to your cupcakes. But someone’s gonna have to go destroy that little beauty. Colton, you should do the honors,” she says, turning to me, looking at me as if nothing had happened at all last night. Is it really that easy for her?
“Uh—I don’t know. It’s really pretty,” I say. “I’d hate to break up something that looks so good.”
She shrugs. “Nothing lasts forever.” She’s still pissed at me, that’s for sure. So much for pretending nothing happened. Our little word-sparring weighs heavy on my chest; I’m not going down this route with her, so I don’t answer. Producing a knife, she stabs through the tree, detaching the top and handing it to me. “The star goes to Colton though, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her voice breaks a little in a way only I can perceive.
And the way she looks at me right now? Her words in front of the guys?
I might have heard her right last night, but I read her wrong. She’s more complex than I thought, and that’s on me.
I said I’d make her mine, and dammit, one way or another—I will.
But for now, I set the star on a small paper plate next to the computer and mumble thank you.
I duck back into the bay right as Owen Parker appears, dangling the keys to his BMW, and slide back under the Corvette
“Owen,” I hear Orson say. “Why don’t you relax and have a muffin, yeah?”
I roll to the side in time to see Owen ignore the baked goods, his gaze instead trailing Kiara up and down with a gleam I can’t stand.
I roll from under the car, wipe my hands, and stomp back to the waiting room. By the time I get there, he’s chatting Kiara up, and she’s telling him about the hard time she’s having finding a commercial space within her budget.
“Full service, yeah?” I interrupt him, getting on the computer. “We’ll have her ready by tonight. D’you want the loaner?”
“Just a ride into town,” he says, looking at Kiara. “You going that way?”
“I’ll give you a ride,” I say. “Or you can have the loaner. Kiara isn’t going that way.” I grab my keys and open the door for him.
Ignoring Orson’s belly laugh behind me, I take a deep breath, step out, tilt my head up to the wide expanse of bluebird sky, my gaze following a cardinal until it lands within the cottony arms of a bush covered in snow. It’s gonna be alright.
“How’s business?” Owen asks once we’re in my truck. I expected him to rib me about being territorial about Kiara. I guess he’s matured and I haven’t.
“Pretty good. Better’n expected, actually. How ’bout you?”
“Good, good. Can’t complain.” Owen is the only lawyer in town, and everyone knows him. I stop at the intersection of Maple and Elm. Ms. Angela takes her sweet time crossing, then stops right in the middle of the crosswalk to wave at us, beaming.
We wave back.
As she trots to the other side—not because she’s holding traffic but because her friend Cheryl calls her from the steps of Shy Rabit—Owen says, “Tell me, how would you feel about joining the Select Board?” Only the largest cities in Vermont have mayors. The rest of us are governed by Select Boards, and their meetings are public. A good way to make sure all topics are discussed in the open, and no single person has the monopoly of decision-making. Cassandra is on the Select Board, as well as my mother’s friend Lynn, my friend Noah, and Owen.
Owen and I have history, and it’s not a pretty one. But it’s old history. Still, the fact he’s asking piques my interest.
I clear my throat and make a right into Morgan Way. “I don’t know, Owen. I’m not good at all this… debating stuff. I just like things to get done. No offense but you guys spend too much time talking. I don’t think I’d be good at—”
He turns in his seat to face me. “Well and that’s why you’d be the right person! No nonsense. Straight shooter. Get the stuff done. We need someone like you. Can you believe Stan moved away and despite posting the vacancy on Echoes several times now, only that old witch Louise came forward? People have no sense of civic duty. And I don’t mean you,” he adds quickly.
I give him my non-committal answer. “I’ll think about it.”
“Really?” He sounds genuinely pleased. Almost impressed. “We’d need to have your application in soon, so we can review it before the selection meeting.”
I nod. “Cassandra told me.” She asked me at Millie’s, the morning I fixed Kiara’s car, and again another time. I kept telling her I’d think about it .
I pull up to Owen’s office, a brick federal building on a tree-lined street right off The Green.
He beams. “Ca-Cassandra? See? If you can make Cassandra and me see eye to eye… you’re really the person we need.” He gets out the truck, then leans back in. “I hope you join us,” he says, and for once I believe he’s being honest. Why he wants me to join is another story.
By the time I’m back at the garage Kiara is gone, and I get back to work with a low-level frustration that doesn’t let up until the end of the day.
But that evening at Lazy’s, sitting alone at the bar in front of my beer while Kiara and her girlfriends are laughing at a booth, the plan takes perfect shape in my brain.
There’s no rush. There’s a perfect place and a perfect time and a perfect way this is going to happen. I didn’t see it until now.
So for the next few weeks, I just let her be.