28. Summer #2
“I’ll be there in ten. Call a tow truck or something, I don’t know. I’m not a car specialist. You’re a big girl. You can figure it out.”
“A tow truck.” I nod to myself. “Right.”
“Just so you know, I’m not brushing my teeth.”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose.
The line goes dead.
I call the only tow truck company in Ocean Grove, rattling off my whereabouts, and am told the wait shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes. The gentleman kindly provides the details of the mechanic they usually work with and offers me a ride to the garage, but I tell him I’ll meet them there.
Addie pulls up behind me five minutes later. She climbs out of her rental, takes one look at me, and completely loses it.
“What?” I demand.
She tries to speak but can’t. She just points at my face and wheezes.
“What?”
“Oh my God.” She straightens up, wiping tears from her eyes. “What on Earth are you wearing?”
I adjust the old aviator sunglasses I found in the center compartment—the ones that cover half my face—and tighten the scarf I’ve wrapped around my head and lower jaw.
She points to my face. “Could you be more obvious?”
“I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”
“Well, you’re doing a spectacular job of the opposite.” She pulls her phone out and snaps a photo. “You look like the world’s worst bank robber. Or a geriatric spy.”
“I do not—”
“You look like you’re about to rob a nursing home for adult diapers.”
“Addie—”
“You look like someone who thinks they were famous in the seventies.”
“Are you done?” I deadpan.
“No! What’s with the scarf? It’s eighty degrees. You look like some erotic audiobook narrator trying to hide their identity on Instagram.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me. Now take off the babushka scarf before someone sees me with you. It’s embarrassing.”
“Hey—”
She tugs it off my head, opens the passenger door, and tosses it inside.
“Much better.”
“That is Hermès!”
“It’s hideous is what it is.” She stomps around to the hood of the car, bending down to assess it. “Damn. This thing really is old, isn’t it?”
Yes, dear Addison has become accustomed to being ferried around in Range Rovers and Bentleys.
“Yup,” I reply, popping the P.
She lifts her sunglasses, bending over to assess the front tires.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Having a look, obviously.”
“You don’t know the first thing about cars.”
She stands tall. “Excuse me. I know enough to deduce that this old thing shouldn’t be on the road. What is it? A hundred years old?”
“Fifty-four,” I deadpan.
“Same thing.”
“Not remotely.”
She scrunches her nose, circling the Beetle like a shark. “It’s so old, Sum. Like, is vintage even the right word? It’s basically prehistoric.”
“Amazing what time does, isn’t it?” I lean against the hood. “Passing by. Aging things.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m here to help.” She pats the roof.
“You don’t even know what’s wrong with it.”
“It stopped working.”
Jesus Christ.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asks, hands on hips.
“I called a tow truck. The guy said he’d tow it to Earl’s Auto something-something.”
A loud rumble sounds from a distance, and we turn to find the tow truck approaching. The driver hops out, cranks the Beetle onto the flatbed, and instructs us to follow him.
“Fabulous. Now that’s sorted, get in before someone passes by and thinks I’ve stooped to do manual labor.” Addie flashes me a grin and points to her Mercedes.
“Snob. How did you find a Mercedes rental in Ocean Grove, anyway?”
She pumps her brows. “Money.”
We pull up to a modest building with a large, graffiti-style painted sign a short while later.
As the driver unloads the Beetle into the gravel lot, a young guy in his early twenties meets us out front.
His shaggy brown hair falls over his eyes.
He has an easy smile plastered on and wears stained coveralls.
He wipes his hands on a rag before extending one toward me.
Then his face pales.
“Holy shit.” His hand freezes midair. “Holy shit. It’s you!”
“I know,” Addie says beside me, waggling her brows. “In the flesh. A little disappointing, isn’t she?”
I laugh and give her arm a playful swat before turning back to the guy. “Hi, I’m Summer.”
“I know who you are.” He’s still staring. I don’t think he’s even blinked.
Addie clears her throat, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m Simon. I work here, obviously. My name’s Simon. Shit! Sorry.” He runs his fingers through his hair, leaving a smudge of grease by his temple. His flustering is kind of adorable.
“Breathe, Simon,” Addie says, patting his shoulder. “She’s just a person. A very famous person who’s won multiple Grammys and sold out Madison Square Garden four times, but still. A person, standing in front of a mechanic, asking for her car to be fixed.”
I suck in a sharp breath at the atrocious Notting Hill reference and turn toward the Beetle.
“Right!” Simon rushes. “Let’s take a look at her.”
He circles the car, inspecting every inch. “Seventy-two?”
“Yeah. She was my mom’s.”
“We’ll take real good care of her,” he assures me. “Promise.”
He leads us into the garage, which is cleaner than I expected. I dodge a few spare parts, careful not to touch anything.
The joint smells like oil and sweat.
“I’ll get her up on the lift today and run a full diagnostic,” he calls over his shoulder. “Could be something easy like the fuel pump or the spark plugs. Might be bigger. It’s hard to know. These old Beetles can be temperamental, but once they’re up and running, they’re a beautiful car.”
My lips curve. “Sounds good.”
Music drifts from two speakers mounted in the far corners and the lyrics slow my feet.
Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide …
Oasis.
I’m transported back to that night in a darkened bedroom while a boy with green eyes lay beside me, his breath evening out as sleep finally pulled him under, my fingers combing through his hair as the song played out.
“Champagne Supernova,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He hums. “I love this song.”
I smile. “Me too.”