14. Mary
MARY
THIS IS TECHNICALLY A GOOD DEED
Luke and I have been friends since my family moved in next door to his when I was ten and he was thirteen. I used to sit and watch him tinker away on cars with his dad, completely fascinated by the way he worked.
Not much has changed in the twelve years since.
I still get that same warm, settled feeling watching him now.
He’s half under a car, music leaking out of the radio in lazy, uneven waves, grease smeared across his jeans like it belongs there.
Like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.
And seeing him like this, comfortable and focused, fills me with something soft and steady. It always has.
He doesn’t notice me at first. When Luke’s working, the rest of the world tends to fall away, leaving just him and whatever he’s fixing.
I’ve always found the predictability of that so comforting.
The way his hands move with quiet certainty, working on instinct more than anything else.
No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a steady, practiced rhythm.
It makes him easy to talk to. Actually, he’s about the only guy I can talk to. Being as shy as I am isn’t for sissies. That’s why I picked him for my plan.
Guilt swirls low in my stomach at the thought, because it means I didn’t just come here to talk to Luke. I came here because I knew he’d say yes.
I watch him longer than is probably polite, letting the silence stretch while I rehearse, again, what I’m going to say. On the way over, I ran through this part more times than I care to admit.
Earlier at the diner, someone made one of those loud, “adorable” jokes about me being the baby of the group while I was topping off the sugar canisters. Everyone laughed. I smiled.
It was harmless.
It was harmless… but it works.
It’s something I’ve leaned into with Luke for as long as we’ve been friends.
My dad is a complete control freak. My parents had me later in life, and when he retired from the military, we moved to Boudica Springs to be closer to his brother—Quadri’s dad—which is how we ended up close with that whole side of the family, including Shelly.
But leaving the military didn’t mean it ever really left him.
He trusts no one. He’s always treated me like I’m seconds away from being kidnapped and used against the government.
His whole mindset has always been that I should be seen and not heard. So even though the girls don’t treat me that way, it’s not exactly a stretch for me to play it up with Luke since people don’t take me seriously.
My gaze drifts back to him. “Luke?” I keep my voice soft so I don’t break his focus.
“Hang on,” he calls from under the car. “Just—one sec.”
A metallic clink echoes through the space, followed by a low, frustrated exhale that I feel more than hear.
I pause where I am, watching the slight shift of his boots, and how his heel taps once against the concrete, like he’s arguing with the problem instead of solving it.
He doesn’t rush. That’s something I’ve always noticed about him. Even when something isn’t working, he stays with it. Completely focused as if the answer is already there, and he just has to find the right angle.
“Okay, that’s not…” Another pause. “That’s really not?—”
I bite back a smile. Some things never change.
I take a small step forward, then another, my flats sounding louder than they should against the concrete.
I consider waiting him out and staying right here, where things are easy and familiar and I don’t have to say anything at all. But that’s not why I’m here.
“Do you… need a hand?” I ask, softer than I meant to.
He doesn’t answer right away. I don’t take it personally. He’s likely still locked in, arguing with whatever part refuses to cooperate.
A soft huff of amusement comes from under the car. “You offering or just being polite?”
“Offering,” I say quickly, before I can overthink it. “I mean, I can grab tools or hold something or… not be in the way.” I wince slightly. “I’m very good at that last one.”
Another small shift. The scrape of metal against metal.
“You’ve never been in the way,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it always has been. And that, more than anything, loosens something in my chest.
I’ve always helped him. Passed him spanners that were slightly too big for my hands when I was ten.
Held flashlights at angles I didn’t understand while he tried to explain what he was doing in words that made no sense to me at the time.
Sat on the edge of the driveway while he worked, asking questions just to hear him answer them.
He never made me feel like I was hovering.
Never made me feel like I was too much. Or too little.
No, he made me feel seen and heard. Useful and wanted.
“Okay,” he adds after a second. “Grab me the twelve-mil? Should be on the bench behind you.”
“Got it.”
I turn, scanning the cluttered workbench until I find the wrench.
I pick it up, the metal cool against my fingers, and step back toward him.
For a second, I hesitate because this part is easy.
This… standing just outside his line of sight, passing him what he needs, existing on the periphery of his focus…
this is where I’ve always fit. Safe, quiet and useful.
I crouch slightly and place the tool in his waiting hand. Our fingers don’t touch. I don’t know why I notice that.
“Thanks,” he says, already back to it.
I stay there a moment longer than I need to.
Because the second he rolls out from under that car, the second he actually looks at me, I have to stop being the girl who hands him tools and start being the girl who asks for something.
This wasn’t part of the plan. I was supposed to walk in, say his name, and guide the conversation exactly where I needed it to go. I wasn’t supposed to stall.
“Hey, hold this for me?”
I blink, a little slow to catch up. “Oh… okay.”
A moment passes, then his hand appears from under the car, reaching without looking. I move closer, crouching slightly, trying to figure out where he means.
“Here,” he murmurs, gently nudging my hand into place. “Just keep it steady.”
“Okay,” I say, quieter now.
I focus on what he’s shown me, on the small piece of metal under my fingers, holding it exactly where he needs it. It’s simple. I know how to do it. But my hand feels… different. Like I’m suddenly too aware of it. You know, like you are suddenly aware you might fail the job at hand.
“Like this?” I ask, just to make sure.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s perfect. Keep it steady.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me from where he is, focusing on the pressure under my fingers, the slight resistance of whatever I’m holding in place.
It feels important, which is ridiculous, because I have no idea what it actually does.
Still, I don’t move. The familiarity of it catches me off guard for a second.
Not because it’s strange, but because some part of me forgot how easy it is to be around Luke.
I’m suddenly very aware of how long it’s been since we’ve done this.
We hang out together, sure, but it’s always great to get back to basics.
“Good. Don’t move.”
As soon as he says that, I get a cramp. Shit. My finger twitches.
“You moved.”
I pause. “I adjusted.”
“That’s moving.”
I bite back a smile. There’s no anger in his tone. No frustration like he knew I would fail because I’m just a girl.
For a moment, it’s just the sound of tools shifting, the radio humming somewhere between stations, Luke singing off-key. I take a deep breath as the word hit me. Safe.
A few seconds later, he exhales. “Okay, got it.”
I feel it before I see it, the change, the release of pressure under my fingers, the way the resistance gives and suddenly there’s nothing holding me there anymore.
My hand hovers for a second, like it doesn’t quite know what to do without the task anchoring it, then I pull it back. Time to get on with it.
“That’s it,” he says.
I’m not ready. Ridiculous, because I knew this part was coming. But knowing and being prepared are not the same thing.
Luke slides out from under the car and sits up, dragging a hand over the back of his neck before standing. There’s a smear of grease along his jaw I don’t think he knows is there, and his hair is doing that slightly messy thing it always does when he’s been working.
And now he’s looking at me properly.
“Hey,” he says, like this is just another normal day in his garage and not me about to manipulate him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly because maybe this isn’t a good idea. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Silence stretches between us. He tilts his head, studying me in that quiet way of his that always makes me feel like he’s seeing more than I’m saying. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to hand me tools.”
It’s not a question. I press my lips together, then let them part again before I can overthink it.
Say it. Keep it simple.
He doesn’t move away. Just watches me for a second, like he’s waiting for the rest of it.
I press my lips together, then let out a small breath before I can stop myself. “They called me the baby again.”
There it is. It sounds smaller out loud than it did in my head.
Luke’s expression changes just enough that I can see he’s paying attention now.
“At the diner,” I add, because apparently I feel the need to clarify my own statement. “It was just… a joke. I know it was. It’s always a joke.”
“But,” he prompts gently.
I shrug, trying to make it look like it doesn’t matter. “But it sticks.”
I glance down at my hands, brushing my fingers together again like I can shake off the feeling of it. “I just… I don’t want to be that. Not all the time.”
Honest. A little too honest, but not the way he’s going to assume.
When I look back up, he’s still watching me, but there’s something steadier in his expression now. More certain. “You’re not,” he says.
I huff out a small, disbelieving breath. “Luke?—”