Page 94 of That Moment
Shame hits swiftly. “No.” I set her gently off my knees and stand so fast the stool skids. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. This is childish.”
She tips her head, a little pouty, a little entertained. “It’s fine, Scotty. Really. We’re just having a good time.”
“I know.” I fish out a wad of cash and toss it on the bar. “For the tab. And hers.”
“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.” She laughs, unbothered. “See you around.”
I don’t answer. I’m already moving, weaving through tables, catching a flash of Brooklyn at the high-top. She’s staring at me like I’m a dead man walking. I deserve it. I push through the door into the cool night and stand there with my hands on my hips, gulping air that doesn’t want to fill my lungs, like I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
The lot is empty except for a couple of pickups and the long dark of the highway. Adrienne’s taillights are gone.
“Fuck!” I kick at the gravel.
On the way out of town, I swing into the liquor store, grab a case of beer I don’t need, and pay without looking at the kid who rings me up. My phone buzzes in my pocket the second I step outside. I don’t check it. If it’s her, I don't deserve to see her name. If it’s not her, it’ll cut anyway.
I don’t go home. I point the truck toward the shop and let muscle memory take me. I punch in the code, roll up the bay, and the smell hits me. I walk straight to her Mustang, leaning my hands on it.
“Okay,” I mutter, throat raw. “Let’s end this right.”
I tell myself I’m going to finish this car and cut ties. Get it running, give it back, close the door on the ache. If I make itimpossible to see her, maybe I can forget about her… forget the way I broke her heart and my own.
I pop a beer, take a long pull, and set to work. I lose all track of time, letting my mind drift to anything to keep from thinking about her.
Except I can’t. Not really. Because every time I look up, I see her fingers around a ratchet, her smile when she nails a step I thought would trip her, the ridiculous way she always high-fives me after the simplest of tasks with this car.
You did this, you idiot. You pushed her away because you’re scared. Because you don’t deserve her.
I drink to drown the thought. Another beer. Then two more. The edges of the bay blur, the concrete seems to list under my boots like a slow ship. I tell myself I’m fine. I’ve worked through worse. I’ve worked through grief, through long nights after my dad’s gone.
I put the carb back, finger-tighten the bolts, go back with the wrench, quarter turns until the resistance bites. I yank the distributor cap and check the points I changed last week. Clean, clean, clean. If I make everything clean, maybe I can clean the mess I made, too.
I pop another can. The tab snaps up, beer foams over my knuckles. The floor tilts again. I should stop.
At some point, I slide into the driver’s seat and imagine her next to me. Legs bare, heel tapping the mat, chin lifted, asking me why I’m staring. I can hear exactly how she’d say it, bossy and sweet.
See something you like, Bescher?
My head drops back. The ceiling lights buzz like cicadas. I close my eyes and she’s there. The day she walked into the shop with a pastry box, pretending I was invisible while every man in here fell a little more in love with her. The night she leanedagainst my counter, mouth pink and swollen from my kiss, telling me she shouldn’t stay and staying anyway.
I climb out, stumble to the back door, and splash water on my face at the utility sink. The water is glacier cold and does nothing.
Back at the Mustang, I open the rear passenger door to grab a socket that rolled off the seat earlier, and the leather smell drifts up. I’m instantly transported back to summer nights crammed back here with Axel and Aiden, their older cousin Milly in the passenger seat, controlling the radio.
I glance over at the last beer on the workbench, my body swaying. I pop it open, bring it to my lips, and drain it. I set the can on the roof, miss by an inch, hear it hit the floor and roll.
“Shit,” I mutter, bending to reach it, and my balance goes. The room leans and I go with it, forearm catching the door frame, shoulder bumping the pillar. My body decides it’s had enough.
I open the back door wider, shove a couple of boxes of parts onto the floor, and fold myself into the back seat. The leather creaks under my weight. I try to straighten, fail, and let my head thunk against the cushion. The room spins, so I close my eyes and take in several deep breaths. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. The lights hum, and somewhere outside, a train moans down the line.
I tell myself one last lie. That I’ll wake up early, finish the job clean, hand her the keys with a quiet nod, and be done. My eyes fall shut on the picture of her standing there at the bar, sadness replacing the fire that was burning in her eyes.
Then everything slides out from under me, and I’m gone.
Chapter 17
Adrienne
Ikick the door shut with my heel and toss my clutch onto the counter so hard it skids and nearly takes out a candle. Fitting. Everything else tonight went up in flames. Why not add wax and fire to the list?
