12. Ethan #2
“This is it,” I said, folding the tarp. “Dad bought it when I was sixteen. Said we’d get it running together.”
Lena stepped inside, her eyes taking in every detail. She was dressed casually that day—old jeans, a simple t-shirt, hair pulled back. Different from the woman at the overlook three nights ago, but no less striking.
“How far did you get?” she asked.
“Engine’s about halfway there. Body needs work.” I ran my hand along the fender. “We had it running once, for about twenty minutes. Then the transmission went. It was quite the sight. The two of us dancing around triumphantly, interrupted by a big bang and a giant puff of black smoke.”
She circled the truck slowly, studying it from every angle. I watched her examine things the way she did with her project files, methodically.
“Why fix it now?” she asked finally.
I didn’t answer right away. The truth felt too revealing, but I’d never been good at lying.
“Seemed like the right time,” I said instead. “Thought you might want to help, if you aren’t too busy.”
I didn’t tell her that sometimes, busy hands are all you need to calm your mind.
She looked at me, and I wondered if she heard what I wasn’t saying. That I was trying to help in the only way I knew how.
“Where do we start?” she asked.
I smiled, relieved. “Engine first. Always the engine. Doesn’t matter how pretty something is, if the inside is all twisted up.”
I pulled out my toolbox and set it between us. The familiarity of the tools grounded me—wrenches lined up by size, sockets in their case, the old hammer with the worn handle. I’d had these longer than most things in my life.
“Hand me the 9/16,” I said, leaning into the engine bay. She looked at the tools, hesitated only briefly before selecting the right wrench. Her fingers brushed mine as she passed it over.
“Good guess,” I said.
“Process of elimination,” she replied with a small smile. “And I was watching which bolts you were looking at.”
We worked steadily for the next hour. I showed her how to check the timing, how to test connections, how to feel for what was wrong rather than just looking for it. She learned quickly, asking the right questions, her hands becoming more confident with each task.
“My dad used to say you can tell everything about a person by how they approach an engine,” I said, wiping grease from a gasket. “Patient people clean parts before they install them. Optimists overtighten them. Pessimists always leave themselves a way out.”
“What about me?” she asked.
I glanced at her hands, steady as they held a part in place while I tightened it. “You work like someone who’s used to figuring things out on your own.”
She looked pleased by that. “And you?”
“Me? I work like someone who’s made every mistake there is to make.” I smiled. “Some of them more than once.”
We continued working the rest of the afternoon, with some hiccups—her handing me the wrong screwdriver, me fumbling connections as she watched uncertainly.
I found myself stuck on the way that her brow furrowed in concentration, my face heating as she leaned over the cylinder head, the pale skin of her back peeking out of her shirt.
The clouds rolled in outside, the sky greying. I glanced up, and she did the same.
“Seems like a storm’s coming,” she said.
I straightened, wiping my hands on a rag. “Huh. The forecast didn’t mention that.”
“Those clouds tell me it might’ve been wrong.”
Almost as if in agreement, the sky answered with a deep rumble. The first drops of rain tapped on the metal roof softly, but it wasn’t long before they were hammering down. The two of us watched as the garage dimmed.
“It’s beautiful in its chaos, isn’t it?” There was awe in her voice as she whispered.
My eyes trailed the contours of her face, the soft tilt of her lips, and I couldn’t help the thought that escaped me.
“Yes, it absolutely is.”
A moment later, the overhead lights of the garage flickered once, twice, before finally twitching out for good.
“The power’s out,” she whispered.
I took her hand, and we slipped past the scattered wrenches and over to the corner cabinet. The power clicked back on the moment my hand reached the flashlight in the drawer.
She chuckled softly beside me before her hand reached out to touch the record player my father had kept out here for long workdays. It was dusty but intact, the kind they don’t make anymore, built to last.
“Does it still work?” she asked.
“Let’s find out.”
I selected a record from the small stack beside it. The sleeve was worn at the edges, the paper thinning. I slid the vinyl out carefully, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the needle.
For a moment, there was only crackling. Then the sound filled the space—warm, slightly distorted, but alive. Ray Charles, my father’s favorite.
I turned to find Lena watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Dance with me,” I said before I could think better of it.
She hesitated. “Here? What if we trip over the tools?”
“Would you prefer to be out in the rain? We’re stuck for a while. Might as well make the best of it.”
That earned me a smile.
She stepped closer, and I took her hand. My other hand found her waist, and we began to move in the small clearing between workbenches. It was awkward at first—too little space, too many things to avoid bumping into.
But then she relaxed against me, and suddenly the space felt exactly right. Her hand was warm in mine, her body close enough that I could feel her breathe. We moved slowly, barely more than swaying, the music wrapping around us.
“Your dad has good taste,” she murmured.
“In some things,” I agreed. “Terrible in others. You should see his shirts.”
She laughed softly, and I felt it more than heard it, the way her chest rose up to brush against mine.
She jumped when a burst of lightning cracked against the sky, and her hand tightened in mine as we swayed.
The record player slowed as the power went out once again, and then there was only us. Skin to skin in the darkness, moving to the sound of the storm.
My breath hitched as I leaned in, the tension in my body snapping as I used my palm to pull her further into me.
I paused for a moment, giving her a chance to pull away, to put space between us.
I sucked in a breath when she tilted her head up to meet mine, and then I was tasting her.
The kiss was different from our first, no surprise in it now, just raw hunger. My hands found her waist again, pulling her against me. Her arms circled my neck, fingers threading into my hair.
We moved together without planning it, stumbling slightly as we navigated the small space. Her back met the wall, and I pressed into her, wanting to be closer. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent. Her hands slipped under my shirt, cool against my skin.
“Ethan,” she breathed against my mouth.
Just my name. Nothing else. But the way she said it.
God, she slayed me.