Page 4 of Mechanic Next Door
3
Peach
“I’m goingto be making lemon chicken tonight.” I drag the tip of my knife against the cutting board and tangle my fingers through the cord of my landline. Thomas laughs and I can see my sweet, friendly neighbor shaking his head, leaning against his counter and taking a sip of hiscoffee.
“That’s what you make every Saturday night,” hechuckles.
“Did you know there was a fad diet in the seventies that prescribed its followers to eat only a couple of hard-boiled eggs, coffee, steak, and white wine every day? And you could drink a whole bottle of wine a day, starting with breakfast. Wine forbreakfast!”
“I don’t know where you get these ideas from.” There’s a slight pause. “Hang up, Peach. I’m comingover.”
The nickname he gave me when we first met when I was eighteen still makes me feel as warm and fuzzy inside as it did the firsttime.
I lost my parents to a drunk driver three years ago. I was about to be a senior in high school, and I came here to live with my grandfather, my only living relative. The year I had with him before he passed away, though, it rehabilitated my heart in ways I never thought would be possible. And Thomas was there. He helped. He did so much emotional work toward getting me better. It makes me feel indebted to him. Not out of obligation, though. It’s in a way I don’t quite understand. In a way that makes me feel forever close tohim.
And then, when my grandfather died, Thomas was there. He was everything to me. He took care of me. Simple care. He brought me food and forced me to eat even when I tried to push the spoon away. He broke up crackers into my soup and wouldn’t leave my side until I finished the whole bowl. He stayed at my side even if I wouldn’t, or couldn’t,speak.
“See you soon,” I say into the phone, goosebumps plumping over my arms. I don’t know if it’s in response to his tone, sweet and rough in equal measure, or the way the spring breeze is gliding through the window and making everything inside mesparkle.
I brush my hands on my apron and leave my knife on the cutting board with the lemons I was slicing. Some for tea, some for the chickentonight.
The screen door snaps shut and he walks in, boots heavy against the hardwood. My heart flutters and my palms get sweaty as I watch him go over to my refrigerator to grab a single weekend afternoonbeer.
My gaze roams his body while his back is to me. His jeans are slung low on his hips and his black tee is stretched thin and tight against his thick muscles. He pushes a strong hand through his thick, wavy dark hair, and I feel my lips turn down at the corners as my teeth dig into my lower lip. He isn’t even all that much older than me. I’m twenty-one and he’s thirty-six. Is that too much of a gap? I don’t know. Even if the difference is too much, it’s not insurmountable. What is insurmountable, however, is his hold onme.
His precise, exact hold on me, one that exerts itself in a unique and uniquely torturous way every day, is getting harder and harder to understand. He’s my fierce protector in all things big and small. He is my best friend. When I was giving out candy last Halloween to the neighborhood kids he insisted on sitting on my front porch from sundown to midnight to ensure that no shenanigans took place. I don’t know if he was more concerned with teenagers throwing toilet paper through the branches of my trees or of me sneaking one of my guy friends through a window and upstairs to myroom.
And two years ago, when a baby deer ate my tomatoes, he erected a fence around my garden to keep my fruits and vegetablessafe.
A unique, torturous hand has gripped my heart with longing. I search it out, the longing. Because it’s not the same kind of longing I’ve ever felt before. But it’s not just longing. It’s a razor’s edge of uncertainty. It feels so good sometimes, and other times, not sogood.
When Thomas starts to turn around I avert my eyes and focus on the letter in front of me. I’m part of an active duty pen-pal program that I signed up for a while ago. I have ten pen-pals, which maybe is too many, but I give each of them the same attention I give the others, and the same attention that I’d give each were they my onlypal.
I start to write my response and Thomas eyes me from his seat across the table. I barely even noticed he’d satdown.
I like the way he sits. One legs is stretched out beneath the table between us, the other is bent and the toe of his boot is tucked under hischair.
His over-protective streak is just beginning to show itself to me in a different form. After all, he’s told me there’s more to protect now, let it slip out once. I shift in my seat as I stuff the envelope with my finished letter. But an idea forms. I take it out again and draw a heart in the corner of the paper. I return the letter to the envelope and lick the seal. I watch Thomas’ hand on the table as I lick my lips and put the envelope on the stack to myleft.
His hands. I’ve pictured them locking my knees apart when I rub myself late at night. I can’t imagine all the things he could do with his hands. They make me wet just looking at them. Does he know I’m wet rightnow?
He looks like he’s about to blow a gasket, his eyes on theletter.
You can’t be doing things like that,Peach.
He just wants to make sure I don’t get into anytrouble.
“What was that about wallpaper?” hegrunts.
But the wallpaper was just a way to get him to comeover.
“Can we go swimming, instead?” I implore, not waiting for him to answer. “I just have my suit hanging to dry in the laundryroom.”
I go over to the key rack hung up next to the phone next to the refrigerator, taking the key down and putting it on the table next to his hand. His fingers move an inch and I leave my hand there to push him to touch me. Any kind of physical contact from him should hold me over for a bit, but he just looksaway.
“Wait a minute for me to get changed and then lock up,” I say as I start to walkaway.
My pulse is pounding through me, thick as honey. I put my chin over my shoulder to see if he’s looking at me. I wore this dress today on purpose. It’s another article of clothing he doesn’t like me wearing. I can pretend I don’t agree with him, but I do agree with him. I shouldn’t be wearing something like this. It’s too short. I’ve grown inches taller in the last year and gained weight, most of it filling in my breasts and hips. I’ll only wear things like this around Thomas, because I don’t want to give any one else the wrong idea. There are no wrong ideas when it comes to Thomas,though.
I want him to see me as something more. Will heever?
I make my way through the kitchen and land in the laundry room at the back of the house, stripping my dress over my head before I’m even past thethreshold.
If Thomas wants to see me, all he has to do islook.
