Chapter 17 Luisa
Holly had to work at the club today, so it’s just Eli and me.
And after three excruciating hours in another one of Pridmore’s “language crossing” sessions, I’m not feeling very optimistic.
Today, the professor strapped Eli into a mask to measure the nasal airflow in his vowels.
If I never again hear the phrase Pee-can whai-ne tastes deh-vai-ne, it will be too soon.
Beside me, Eli holds on for dear life, making some kind of strangled cat noise as I hurl my SUV into the inches of space available between a monster truck and some hapless old lady in a Prius.
In my defense, there’s only one way to merge onto the connector at the height of Atlanta rush hour: aggressively.
I grip the steering wheel a little harder, annoyed by the infuriatingly slow-moving traffic and unsettled by this stifling silence between us.
Unable to do anything about the traffic, I reach for my phone, scanning my playlists—Greatest Opera Arias, Rock en Espanol Radio, the Tropical Boleros mix I keep on tap for Abuela.
I hit play on This Is Billie Holiday, and the nostalgic notes of “I’ll Be Seeing You” pour into the cabin.
At the sound, my shoulders sink lower into my leather seat.
I’m exhausted, yet my heart makes room for memories of Holiday’s voice pouring out of Papi’s office on a sunny Sunday afternoon, mixing with the mouthwatering aroma of Mami’s sofrito as she prepared a big family dinner—back when we were all happy. Or at least I thought we were.
The beeping noise of the tire pressure gauge brings me back to the present. A dashboard warning illuminates, but it’s not until Eli asks me to pull over that I register it’s a flat tire.
I veer onto the shoulder and stop. Eli props his elbow over the center console to inspect the dashboard.
“How many lights do you have on?” he asks, leaning so far into my seat that his shoulder brushes my arm.
The hard sensation of his forearm muscle lingering over my skin sends a ripple of warmth flowing through my whole body—I’m too tired to fight it or push it away.
“When was the last time you got an oil change?”
“I’ve been busy,” I say, my tone prickly. “Our little project is a bit of a time suck, in case you haven’t noticed.”
He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. “Pop the trunk,” he says, opening his door and stepping outside.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Changing your tire and then taking you to get an oil change.” He shuts the door and walks to the back of my SUV. A wall of toxic fumes and burnt rubber punches me in the face the moment I step out of the car. I follow Eli, unnerved by the asphalt hellhole that is the connector.
Eli opens the trunk and removes the cover for the underside compartment. He takes out the spare tire, a black box marked by a bright red triangle, and other metal tools I didn’t know lived there.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, searching on my phone for my car’s roadside assistance app. “I’ll call for help.”
“It’ll take those guys an hour to get here. Maybe more with this traffic.”
I glance back at the highway, where thousands of vehicles are crammed bumper-to-bumper, all because some engineer, in their infinite wisdom, decided the solution to this city’s traffic nightmare was merging two highways into a twelve-lane sprawl.
Eli takes off his new sweater and shirt, stripping down to a white undershirt.
His undershirt rises slightly, offering me a glimpse of the very toned torso underneath.
San Antonio, what are you doing to me? Is this who I’ve become?
A single, almost thirty, unemployed disaster, leering at an unpredictable (albeit smoking hot) man on the side of the highway?
I step back as he effortlessly rolls the spare to the flat side of the car. “It’ll take me ten minutes.”
“Wait,” I say with so much urgency that he stops cold. “It’s my car.” I take off my brand-new jacket and my watch, then pull my hair up. “I should be able to do this.”
Eli watches me with that sardonic amusement he seems to save only for me.
I can’t tell whether he finds me silly or just plain insufferable—maybe both.
I’m going for badass feminist, as in, got-it-together gal who can change a tire in heels and doesn’t need a man’s help.
And yeah, maybe I need to prove to myself that I don’t need his help.
I got this.
“Okay,” he says, passing me the black box, which admittedly weighs a ton. “Have at it.”
He leans the spare against the side of the SUV and steps back.
I squat next to the flat, assessing the situation and trying my hardest to remember Papi’s tire-changing lesson on the day I got my learner’s permit fourteen years ago.
In theory, I know I have to use a jack to lift the car, unfasten the nut bolts, swap the tire, replace the nuts, then bring the car down again.
I open the black box and study its contents—a jack and something that looks like a drill?
I pull out my phone and search “how to change a flat tire” on YouTube.
I add “on the side of the highway” for good measure.
The options seem endless. Dozens of men explain the exact same thing in as many different ways.
I sense Eli standing quietly behind me, watching over my shoulder.
“You’ve got a fancy electric jack,” he says after I’ve hit stop and play for the fourth or fifth time. “The ones in the videos are all manual.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, opening the electric jack’s instructions to page one.
Behind me, Eli exhales—hard. I peer over my shoulder and find him staring down at me, one arm crossed over his abs, the other pulling at his face, wrapped tightly around his jaw.
“You can go wait inside the car if you want,” I say coolly. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“God, you’re stubborn,” he says, shaking his head.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” I grumble, then more loudly, “I prefer strong-willed.” I leaf through the manual, trying in vain to speed-read the contents, refusing to call it quits on a matter of principle. “Maybe even endearingly so.”
This makes him snort. “Well, I hope you’re willing to die out here,” he observes. “ ’Cause any minute now, we may get crushed against that concrete wall.” He nods toward the cement barricades lining the emergency lane. “Not to mention, you’re about to be doing this in the dark.”
I ignore the commentary, because no, I don’t have a death wish, or a flashlight for that matter—other than the one on the phone I’m currently using to translate the lingo in this manual. And yes, I’ll admit that maybe it is dangerous to be out here in the dark.
Eli crouches down next to me so that we’re at eye level. “Luisa,” he says, but I’m only half listening.
“Uh-huh,” I respond, my attention completely absorbed by this stupid manual, which I’m convinced was written by a German aeronautical engineer. Apparently, I need to block the tires in the front before lifting, but with what?
Eli places his warm hand on my arm. “Luisa,” he repeats. The touch startles me. I gaze up to meet his eyes, staring back at me. “Let me do this for you.” The kindness in his voice momentarily disarms me. “You’ve spent weeks washing my hair, buying me new clothes—”
“That was part of the agreement,” I interject, my tone businesslike, transactional, eager to put some distance between us.
“We made a deal. Let’s just agree we’re both in this for our own purposes.
” I pull away and, instantly, a burning sensation pricks at my skin in the spot where his hand touched my arm.
“I don’t need you to pretend to care about me or my problems. Okay? ”
“Jesus Christ, Luisa,” he cries out in frustration, jumping to his feet. “We’re standing on the side of the damn connector in rush hour. Let me help you.” Then, more softly, “I want to help you.”
He leans down, then slowly extends his hand for the manual I’m grasping.
The whizzing and whooshing of the highway grow faint as his gaze holds mine.
He doesn’t take the booklet away. He waits instead for me to offer it.
A beat of stillness passes between us, in which I remind myself that not everyone is my dad.
Not everyone fails to keep their promises.
Finally, I sigh and pass the manual to him. “Okay,” I say, standing to face him, then stepping back. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He nods but doesn’t smile. It’s his earnest expression, the one he uses on the rare occasion that he’s not deflecting or being sarcastic.
It’s the same sincere expression that makes me want to trust him, in spite of what I know to be true.
“Let me—” he says, taking my hand in his.
The fight drains off me as I let him hold me, watching as he carefully cleans the grease off my fingers.
He slowly rubs into my palm with his thumb, standing so close that I can smell the sweet musk of his cologne, the tea tree oil essence in his shampoo.
My legs weaken beneath me at the warmth of his scent, the gentleness of his touch, at the proximity of his solid form, the firm contour of his body.
For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would feel like to sink into his chest, to close my eyes and rest against his bare skin, to—for just this once—let myself go.
After all the grease is wiped clean, he slowly releases my hand. We stand still for a few seconds, neither of us certain of what to say or do next, both aware that we can’t stay like this for long.
Eli clears his throat and passes me the rag he’s been holding. “I’ll get us on the road in no time,” he says, bending to position the jack under the SUV, then presses a button. Within seconds, the tire is hovering a few inches from the ground.