23. Internal Payload #3
“Really?” I give him the once-over, trying to see how reliable and laid-back Michael Falasco could be anything but serious and trustworthy. “But you’re so…” I gesture at him, unable to think of the word I mean.
“Thanks.” His face expressionless, he shifts forward to look over the hood. “Flynn didn’t do this, did he?”
“God no.” I laugh. “He’d have given me hell. Easier to have someone else do it.”
This time Mike hums.
I tap the steering wheel, feeling guilty for not giving my brother’s shop the work. “Less arguing and questions, y’know?”
Another nod.
“Anyway, what are you going to do about the girl you’re dating?”
“Just keep trying.” He shrugs. “What else is there to do?”
Sighing, I lean my head back against the leather. “But isn’t that exhausting?”
“At times.”
I close my eyes, the events of the day already catching up to me. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
I tilt my head toward him, looking up from under my brow. “You can be kind of annoying, you know that, right?”
“I can see that.” He smiles.
I nudge him in the shoulder.
“She’s older than me.” He catches my frown. “The girl I like.”
“Oh.” I hesitate a moment before offering, “The, um, man I like is older too.”
“Then you get it,” Mike says, having more confidence in my intelligence than I do. “Everyone comes at life from varying paths, with unlimited opinions formed by our experiences. I’ve found that the older one gets and the more of the paths they’ve walked, they tend to be more set in those opinions.”
“Yeah.” I think about Vance scheduling a vasectomy. “Tell me about it.”
“But”—Mike stabs his fingers at the touchscreen in the console looking over my pre-programed radio stations—"a pretty nice benefit of having all that experience is it hopefully won’t take them long to set aside their emotions and recognize their mistakes.”
I let that sink in.
Vance has a fear of dying and leaving loved ones behind, which I only found out about today. After which I sucker-punched him with the baby bombshell. Is it fair to expect him to sort through those emotions in an instant?
I was so hurt that he didn’t feel like I did, that he wasn’t overwhelmed by a sense of rightness over my pregnancy that I wrote off his reaction as concrete proof that when he left, he left for good.
Britney Spear’s “Baby One More Time” plays from my speakers.
Mike scoffs. “The pop station? Really?” His look of disgust is the most emotive I’ve seen him since he got in my vehicle.
I laugh. “Calm down, Eddie Vedder.” Remembering what blares from the auto shop speakers on any given weekday, I push his hands away and switch the audio source. “I have satellite radio. All the nineties stations your little grunge soul can handle.”
Britney switches to Nirvana with the touch of a button.
“Well, that’s something.” Not pausing to enjoy Kurt Cobain’s iconic laconic growls, Mike pushes a few more buttons. Instead of “Smells like Teen Spirit,” nursery rhymes set to soft music play. “This is a good one, I’ll set this in your top five.”
My stomach drops.
Mike pushes more buttons. “Remember my date from the wedding?”
I nod, remembering the brunette.
“That was my sister. She just had a baby a few months ago, and this is the station that always puts my niece to sleep when all else fails. Especially in the car. Something about the purr of the engine and the rocking in the car seat.” He gives me side-eye.
“Remember that in case it comes in handy. Some babies are finicky sleepers.”
I close my mouth and swallow. “How did you…”
He drops his head forward and levels me with a look. “Rose. You’re twenty-one and sitting in a newly purchased mini-van crying.”
My face heats.
“And if that wasn’t enough—” He thumbs behind us.
I glance in my rearview mirror at the reflection of the car seat I set up yesterday, having wanted to make sure I could do it properly.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “Oh.”
An Escalade pulls into the lot, parking a few spots down from mine.
Mike watches a tall, good-looking man hop out from the back. “Ah, that must be my customer.” The man adjusts his jacket, then reaches into the SUV again to pull out what looks like a pet carrier.
“Is that a cat?” I look at Mike, trying not to laugh. “Your customer is a man who carries around a cat?”
“Says the girl with a glitter van and cow print car seat.”
“Touché.”
Mike opens the door. “He’s in the market for a pink Cadillac. Nineteen fifty-five Fleetwood series, just like Elvis bought his mom.”
My eyebrows jump. “He’s a mama’s boy?”
“Nah. It’s for his girlfriend. Not only is she an Elvis fanatic, but she’s also my girl’s best friend.” Mike slides out, catching the guy’s eye and waving.
In the back of my mind, I remember the Elvises at the honky tonk downtown and someone saying something about a cat.
But before I can ask him if his customer had anything to do with it, Mike leans down in the open door. “You know that saying It doesn’t hurt to try ?”
“Yeah?” I’m wondering if this is the moment he morphs into Wilson from the TV show Home Improvement and lays down his mad wisdom on me.
“It’s a lie.”
“Oh.” Or maybe not.
“Trying can really fucking hurt.”
“Uh, good to know.” I don’t know what else to say.
“But it doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it.”
Ah. There it is.
“Plus”—Mike sighs heavily, like what he’s about to say will cost him—"you deserve to be happy, Rose. Make sure you do all you can to make that happen.” He nods at my stomach. “For you and the baby.”
I’m too shocked to respond before he closes the door.
He walks over to his cat customer with the Elvis-obsessed girlfriend, then stops, turns, and jogs back to my window.
When it’s lowered, he points at me, face serious. “And for the love of God if Flynn doesn’t know about the baby go tell him now, ’cause I sure as shit don’t want to get caught hiding that from him.”
As he walks away, I know he’s right. First, I need to tell my brothers. Second, I need to figure out how to try again with Vance. Even if it hurts.