Chapter 4
KNOX
“Iknow who you are, genius. I don’t need a last name,” Emery snipes through the other end of the phone.
A big grin lights up my face as I balance my cellphone between my neck and shoulder. I grab a clean rag and wipe the grease off my hands.
“I’m doing great, thanks for asking! And how are you, Bambi?”
Static fills the other end of the phone, and my smile almost drops. But then I hear her clear her throat and all is well again.
“What do you want?”
“I’m so glad we can have a civilized conversation like two mature adults. I was worried you were still angry with me, but then I told myself that wasn’t it at all. I knew in my heart you were just grumpy because your truck broke down. It’s good to know I was right.”
An indiscriminate growl comes from the other line. “I’m two seconds from hanging up, Knox.”
I’m about to reply when I hear another female voice on the other end, interrupting us.
“I’m going to head out, Emery. I’ll leave my number on the front desk. Give me a call when you’re free.”
Her voice immediately changes pitch, turning into a sickly-sweet version of whatever the hell I just encountered. Something hot pokes at my insides.
“Bye, Marie!”
“Is this a bad time, Bambi? I can always call back now that I know you’ll pick up. You know I’ve been needing a new emergency contact.”
“Listen. I’m in the middle of something, and I don’t have time for your games. For the love of God, please tell me why you called.”
I let out a deep sigh and decide I’ve had enough fun for now. However, irritating Emery has quickly become one of my new favorite hobbies. Was it this much fun when we were kids?
“I looked at your truck, and I have good news and bad news.”
Another groan echoes against my ear. “Okay. Hit me.”
I bite my lip, holding back all the sadistic comments surging in my brain.
“I’ll start with the bad news,” I announce, shifting my phone into my now semi-clean hand. “Your engine is completely shot.”
“What?” she squeaks, her voice strained.
“It’s toast. Burnt to a crisp. Dead and gone.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then a sharp inhale. “You said it was just a spark plug or—”
“I thought it was a blown head gasket,” I say, correcting her, “but I’m man enough to admit that I was wrong.”
Emery scoffs, and I’m relieved to know that I haven’t completely ruined that fire inside her. “Okay,” she replies, hesitating to get the next sentence out. “What’s the good news?”
I’m a little disappointed she didn’t fire back with some insult about how I’m not a man, but I know I just hit her with some pretty heavy news.
“The good news is…I can fix it.”
Silence fills the line again, and I have to look at the phone screen to make sure she hasn’t hung up on me.
“Is that supposed to comfort me?” Emery asks flatly.
“Yes,” I say, my grin widening. “You know better than anyone how good I am with my hands.”
Her first response is an aggravated grunt. Her second: “Is there anyone else I can deal with? What happened to that adorable old man I spoke with last night?”
“Oh wow,” I say, shaking my head. “His head is going to get so big when I tell him you said that. Didn’t know you had a thing for older men, Bambi. Now it all makes so much sense.”
“You know what. You, you, you ass—”
I quickly interrupt her, feeling a satisfying glow return to my face. “Sal is the only other mechanic here, and he hasn’t replaced an engine since 2006.”
“You’re joking,” she snaps.
“If you want your truck back, you’re stuck with me.”
Emery mutters something under her breath, followed by a quiet sigh. “Fine. How much is this going to cost me?”
The worn-down tone in her voice stirs something inside me. “It’s not going to be cheap, but I can find a used engine, which should cut down on the cost.”
Silence weighs down the line. I can imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose tightly and her eyes turning that darker shade of green that happens when she’s frustrated or stressed. I wonder if she still gets those red splotches on her skin too.
“Fine,” she says, letting out a controlled breath. “Do whatever you have to do. I need that truck.”
I lean back against the workbench and shove my free hand into the pocket of my jeans. “Okay. It should only take me a few days, depending on how long it takes to hunt an engine down. Do you have another car you can use while it’s in the shop?”
“Yes,” she answers, her voice slipping into a higher octave. She’s lying.
I wasn’t always the smartest guy in the room, but I was intuitive.
Emery inherited this truck from her grandma.
And based on some light and totally justified stalking on social media, I know she’s been living in New York City for most of her twenties.
The likelihood that she has another vehicle is slim.
“I can help you get a rental. Your insurance probably covers it.”
An actual growl comes from her end of the call. “Did I stutter? I said yes.”
I press my lips together, debating whether I want to poke the bear or not. The Emery I knew was stubborn and prideful. She didn’t take handouts, and she hated it when people looked at her like she was something that needed fixing. We had that in common.
“Okay,” is all I say, “but if you need a ride, I’m always available. Day or night.”
“I’d rather walk into oncoming traffic.”
“Oof,” I respond, clutching my chest. “That hurts, Bambi.”
She exhales, but I catch a twinge of amusement under her breath. There may even be a hint of a laugh in there somewhere. “Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll be waiting by the phone for your call.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“This has been fun, but I have to go. I know you’re dying to catch up some more, but duty calls. I’ll call you when your truck is ready.”
I wait for the beeping sound to indicate she’s hung up, but it never comes. Instead, she lowers her voice to almost a whisper and says, “Thank you, Knox.”
“You’re welcome. Goodbye, Emery. Talk soon.”
When I hear the click of the phone call ending, I’m still grinning like an idiot. The screen goes dark, and for a second, I just stare at my reflection in the smudged glass. She’s just as stubborn as she was when we were kids. Maybe even more.
I sigh and tuck my phone back in my pocket. The sound of her voice echoes in my head as I slowly open the hood of the car I was working on before I called her. Everything about her takes me back to that summer, and there are memories that still fill some void deep down inside me.
I spent our entire time together telling myself that she was just another fling. She would go home at the end of August, and I’d be fine because we were just having fun. But there were moments when even I couldn’t lie to myself.
I remember finding her sitting on the curb in front of her grandma’s shop one afternoon. Her phone was clutched in two shaking hands, and her eyes were glazed over with tears I knew she was fighting.
She tried to play it off, but the second I sat down beside her, I knew. “What happened, Bambi?” I asked.
It took some bad jokes and lots of prodding, but eventually she muttered something about her mom, and how she’d never measure up to her sister, who was pre-med at some prestigious college on the East Coast. She said it all as if she believed it too, and even though I barely knew her, I hated the defeat in her voice.
“I know we’re supposed to respect our parents, but your mom is wrong. You’re not a problem to fix,” I’d said, pulling her close. “You’re still figuring things out, and no one can expect us to be perfect at this age. Well, except for me. Obviously.”
She laughed at that, and it was the first time I realized maybe I didn’t want us to be temporary.
That was the night I took her to get her first tattoo. She chose a lock tattoo for herself. It made her smile like she had finally chosen something for herself for once.
And yeah—maybe getting the matching key tattoo for a girl I barely knew wasn’t my brightest idea. But my gut told me I needed something to remember her by. I guess my gut also knew I’d push her away at some point.
Right when I’m about to turn up the dial on the radio to drown out the lingering regrets from eight years ago, I hear the distinct ding of someone entering the shop. I groan and head to the front desk.
Sal was currently at a doctor’s appointment, and we didn’t have any extra help right now. The sad “Help Wanted” sign has been hanging in our dingy window for weeks with no one willing to bite. Even someone to help out with the phones would be great.
Relief floods through me when I see a familiar face lingering in the waiting room.
“You know you can just come to the back,” I say with a smile. “You’ve been here a million times.”
“Hi to you too, son,” my dad says, wrinkle lines complementing his dimples. “You busy?”
“Nope,” I say, grabbing an extra chair and waving him back to the office. “I can talk for a few minutes.”
I tug off my hat and throw it on the pile of papers cluttering the desk. I’ve been telling Sal to clean this place for years, but he just mumbles something about me sounding like his wife and shuffles off to some corner.
“Sorry for the mess,” I apologize before collapsing into one of the chairs. My dad does the same, sitting across from me.
“I’ve known Sal since I was a kid. I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He chuckles to himself. His smile slowly pulls taut, and I start to suspect this isn’t just a friendly pop-in.
I force my spine into a straight line and sit taller in my seat. “What’s up, Dad?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his salt and pepper tresses. He and my half-brother, Henry, share the same chocolatey brunette whereas I got my mom’s dirty blond hair. But hey, blondes do have more fun.
“I’ve been thinking about that loan you asked me to co-sign,” he says with a heavy tone. My shoulders slump forward, already sensing the way this conversation is going.