Page 34 of Hiss and Make Up
“Why would you think that?” His voice was muffled behind the raised hood. “Do you even know where to find the fuel line?”
“No.”
“Then please, pretty please, get back in the car, so I can focus.”
“Okay, but when you finally get your head out of your butt and take a look at this big puddle of gas at my feet, I’m going to expect an apology.”
“What puddle?”
He dropped the hood and walked around to her side. “Crap.”
“I thought someone had spilled beer, and I figured the gas smell came from the nasty van next to us. But now the van’s gone and there’s this puddle, so I’m thinking fuel line.”
He squatted beside the puddle and frowned. “I think you might be right.”
“I like those words,” she said. “Could you say them again?”
Could you whisper them close against my ear?
Nope. Nope, definitely not.
He gestured at the ground. “We’re stuck in a stadium parking lot, and you’re happy because I said you were right?”
“That and we’re not completely stuck. Call Denise.”
Marc shook his head. He looked down at the time on his phone. “She’s downtown at ArtWalk.”
“That’s not far. She can be here in no time.”
“Do you have any idea how long it would take to walk those kids who-knows-how-many-blocks and get them into the van?”
“Didn’t you say she’s married? Can’t her husband swing over and get us while she and the kids stay downtown?”
Marc shook his head. “He’s offshore. Any other suggestions?”
She had only one. Sierra fished her cell phone out of her pocket and called the one friend she had.
* * *
Marc sat on the hood of his useless car watching the last of the fans file out of the parking lot exits. It was warm, which never felt quite right during football season, and he was starting to sweat. But none of that mattered, because he wasn’t out there alone.
Sierra sat next to him, almost shoulder to shoulder, her hand only inches away from his on the hood. He smiled at her dirty, stubby fingernails, hoarding a blend of dirt, critter leavings, atomic chili, and nacho cheese. She caught him staring at her hand and started picking at the gunk under her index fingernail. Marc somehow resisted the overwhelming urge to grab her hand to keep it closer to him.
“How long have you had that?” He pointed at the bright designs on her arm, his finger dangerously close to touching her bare skin.
“A few years. You have any?”
“Me?” He laughed. “No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It’s not a ridiculous question.”
“I know. It’s just…not me.”
She relaxed and smirked. “I guess not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said, faking offense.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek and thought for a few seconds. When she had her answer, she turned and tilted her head at him. “Are you afraid of what people will say or if it will hurt or if you’ll change your mind?”
