Page 26 of Grease & Grips
“I know.”
Neither of us moves.
“Maybe I can stay a few more minutes,” he says, his hand trailing down my arm until his fingers slip between mine. “I’d like to see you again, but I don’t know when that’ll be… if ever.”
“I’d like that,” I say, quiet but sure.
His eyes drift to the car. “Wanna take a ride?”
I follow his gaze.
“You could show me Sycamore. I know I already saw the one stoplight, but?—”
“Yes.” I squeeze his hand, cutting him off. “I’d love to.”
He lights up at that, grin wide and easy as he tugs me toward the car. He opens the passenger door like a true southern gentleman, and I climb in heart thudding. He jogs around and slides into the driver’s seat, eyes flicking to me like he still can’t believe I said yes.
The engine rumbles to life, and we roll slow out of the garage, tires easing onto Bussey Road knowing we’ve got nowhere urgent to be. I never told Gary I was leaving, but somehow, that feels like the least important thing in the world.
I’ve got a handful of moments left with this beautiful, impossible man and I want to wring every drop of meaning out of them.
Let the world wait.
Right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.
I take him down every wide, cracked road Sycamore has to offer, which small as this place is takes about forty-five minutes if you stretch it.
And I do.
I show him the grocery store and the bank. The old theater on Main that used to play black-and-white movies until some church bought it up and turned it into Sunday sermons. The McDonald’s we got my sophomore year, which felt like a big damn deal at the time.
But I also show him my high school.
The bend in the road where I crashed my car two weeks after I got my permit.
The weather-beaten bridge where my mom used to take me fishing, just the two of us and a Tupperware full of peanut butter sandwiches.
And finally, I show him the house I grew up in.
Somewhere along the way, I’m laughing. Really laughing.
Not because it’s all funny, but because somehow, telling these stories to him makes them feel lighter. The stuff I thought was ugly or dumb or painful shines different when he’s the one hearing it.
For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like I’m just remembering. It feels like I’m sharing and that makes all the difference.
The silence between us isn’t heavy, but it hums under my skin. I catch sight of the shop sign as we turn, and that’s when the jitters really start.
“Text me when you make it back,” I say, once we’re stopped outside the garage. “And maybe… when you’re not so far from the middle of nowhere again.”
He grins, “You’ll hear from me.”
We exchange numbers, and I take the chance to lean across the console and pull him into one last kiss. His lips part for me, and I meet him with slow, lazy swipes of my tongue against his.
Whatever he did to me last night, I want to do right back. Make sure he carries me the way I know I won’t stop carrying him.
I don’t say anything else when I pull back. We just share a long look, and then I step out of the car and head back into the shop. I don’t bother watching him drive off. Don’t think I could survive it.
The rest of the guys aren’t even here yet.
