Page 12 of Grease & Grips
He’s standing over there looking like sin and I’m praying his eyes don’t drift south to see just how fucked up I am over him.
It’s suddenly too hot. Too quiet. Too much. I suck in a sharp breath, heart trying to beat clean out of my chest.
He’s so put together. I just know he could tear a country boy like me apart in the best and worst ways.
“You thirsty?” I blurt.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You have no idea.”
My whole body shudders like I touched a live wire. All I can manage is standing here, hard as hell, arms at my sides, jaw locked, eyes darting anywhere that isn’t him because if I look too long I might actually melt into the floor or do something real stupid.
By the time I come back to earth, my feet are already moving. Putting as much space between us as possible.
“I can, uh… grab you something from the vending machine.”
The smile I get is confirmation he sees straight through me. He’s watching the whole damn game play out and letting me pretend I’ve got the upper hand.
I feel like prey cornered in my own goddamn shop surrounded by the spots where I laugh with the guys and the spots where I’ve let myself feel everything awful on my worst days. Right next to oil stains and socket wrenches and this fucking vending machine that hasn’t worked right since 2017.
I can feel him watching me while I knock the side of the vending machine and wait for a couple Cokes to rattle loose.
I’m grateful for the space. This little bit of distance is keeping me steady, because if either of us close that gap I might convince myself that he could be something good.
And if I do that, I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to put myself back together when he’s gone.
4
“Idon’t know what that couch has been through,” I say over my can of Coke before taking a long swig.
Andrés looks up at me from his spot on the old sofa. Fabric worn thin, splattered with questionable stains.
He glances down at the largest spot, a wide ring of what might be oil or maybe old coffee, then looks back at me and gives a half-shrug because yeah… that tracks.
I’m sitting on a rolling stool a good five feet away. I know that keeping him here and letting it stretch is a bad idea, but I couldn’t bring myself to make him leave.
“So I’ve gotta sit on this nasty ass couch by myself?” he asks, laughing.
“Not much around here that ain’t stained in some way or another.”
There’s no edge to the way he watches me. I see it in his focus. Like he’s trying to figure me out without scaring me off. “Why do you do that?”
The wheels of the rolling stool squeak as I start rocking, twisting side to side hoping that'll burn off whatever this is crawling under my skin. “Do what?”
“Cut down this place,” he says, softly. “Cut down yourself.”
If I'm honest, I don't got a clean answer. I know I run my mouth about this town and about myself, but half the time I don’t even hear it. It’s static at this point. White noise I’ve gotten used to.
Suppose it makes things a little easier. If I talk enough shit about this town, maybe it won’t sting so bad that I’m still here. Maybe if I say it out loud someone’ll hear me and agree, and then I won’t feel so goddamn alone.
But I don’t tell him any of that.
I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“Youdoknow,” he says.
My body’s bracing for something that never lands. That old tension, coiled up tight in my shoulders like I’m waiting to flinch.
I’m not used to people calling me out. Definitely not someone who sees straight through me.
