Page 3 of Car Wash
I have been awayfor too long.
The campus is beautiful. Memories come rushing back as I follow the winding paths past dorms and academic buildings. There’s the old science building where I wrote my first lines of code. It feels so long ago.
It’s the end of the summer, and everything reflects that — the asphalt shimmers in the sun, heat rising in visible waves.
I smile when two young women come into view. They’re holding up a sign with “Charity Car Wash” scrawled across it.
When Mark told me his daughter’s sorority was putting on a fundraiser, I wasn’t surprised. He sounded so proud when he said they were doing all the work themselves—washing cars, passing out flyers, organizing the whole thing like professionals.
I smile to myself. I wonder how she’s doing.
It’s been years since I last saw her. She was always such a good kid. Shy and studious, always buried in a book whenever I’d visit the house. Mark used to joke that she had better SAT scores than both of us combined. I believed it.
I pull into the parking lot, the glittering white asphalt nearly blinding me. I step out of the car and the heat slams into me — pavement radiating, engine ticking.
A few of the sorority girls walk over. One of them steps forward and puts out her hand.
“Hi. I’m Cassie.” She throws a look over her shoulder. “These are my friends. Now, as a representative of our sorority, and I should say, the community at large, I would just like to offer you our sincere, heartfelt, huge thanks. Your support means a lot to us.”
She holds up a bucket and a sponge.
“Now. Paper or plastic?”
Another young woman elbows her in the ribs and makes her laugh.
“What she meant to say is wax on, wax off,” she says, motioning in circles with her hands.
“No, what she’s trying to say is,” still another says as she squeezes a soapy sponge, “do you want to have your car washed?”
I don’t answer. Instead, my attention gets pulled toward someone lingering at the back of the crowd.
Her face is smooth and angelic, her long, thick blonde hair cascading over one shoulder, tangling against her neck and collarbone in the soft breeze.
She squints against the bright morning sun, her face painted in the soft, dappled rays of light beaming through the tall trees at the edge of the parking lot.
Her shirt is pulled tight across her chest and tied into a little knot at the side, showing off the slightest strip of sun-kissed skin. Her lips are thick and a little glossy, her blue eyes framed by long, fluttering lashes.
I can’t take my eyes off her. A strange sensation begins to rise inside me as our eyes meet. My chest becomes warm and the sunsuddenly feels less oppressive, like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
And then…something else entirely. Something heavier. Her chest rises and falls under my gaze. I can feel it from here.
The girl in front of me huffs and marches over to the one I can’t stop staring at.
“Sarah,” she says, pushing her in my direction. “Will you please talk some sense into this gorgeous man?”
Sarah?
This can’t be—
But it is.
Holy fucking hell.
This is not the same shy, studious girl I remember.
Standing before me is the most gorgeous woman on the fucking planet.
The air shifts. Everything around me blurs — the crowd, the music, the water spraying in every direction — it all fades.
