RAFAEL
~
The Chevy's engine ticked as it cooled, the smell of motor oil and metal heavy in the summer heat. I wiped my hands on a rag that had long since lost its battle with grime and squinted at the clock on the garage wall. Two more hours before I could escape this hellhole.
"Moreno! You finish with the Benton job yet?" Jen shouted from the office, her voice cutting through sounds blaring from the ancient radio.
"Almost," I called back, slamming the hood down harder than necessary. "Just need to test drive."
Jen appeared in the doorway, arms crossed over her faded Metallica t-shirt. At forty-eight, she ran Santos Auto with an iron fist and a surprising amount of patience for the 'delinquents' she hired, her word, not mine.
"No joyrides," she warned, eyeing me skeptically. "Last time you 'test drove' the Peterson convertible, it came back with an empty tank."
"That was Damien, not me." I protested, though I'd been behind the wheel too.
Some details weren't worth mentioning.
"Sure it was." Jen rolled her eyes. "Speaking of your partner in crime, he called in sick again. Third time this month."
I shrugged, not surprised. Damien had been less reliable since he started dating the bartender from Rusty's. "Want me to cover his shift tomorrow?"
"You volunteering for extra work?" Jen raised an eyebrow. "Who are you and what have you done with Rafael Moreno?"
"Maybe I need the money," I muttered, grabbing the Chevy's keys.
"Or maybe you're avoiding something. Or someone." Jen's eyes were too knowing. "How's your dad?"
I tensed, the familiar wall slamming into place. "Singapore. Business. Back next week. Maybe."
Jen nodded, knowing better than to push. "Take the Chevy around the block, then finish the Williamson tune-up. And Rafael?"
I paused at the door.
"You're doing good work. Despite pretending not to give a shit."
I nodded stiffly, uncomfortable with the praise, and escaped into the summer heat.
The test drive was quick and uneventful. As I pulled back into the garage, my phone buzzed with a text from Sam: {Still on for tattoos tomorrow?}
A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. Two days had passed since our midnight swim, and the image of Sam by moonlight, water droplets glistening on her face, her usual shyness replaced by something wild and free, hadn't left my mind. I'd spent years perfecting the art of not noticing her that way, she was Sunny, my best friend, the smart one, the good one.
But lately, something had changed, just subtly, making it harder to maintain those carefully constructed boundaries.
{ All set appointment at 7. wear something with easy sleeve access } I texted back
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. { Nervous. What if I chicken out?}
{ Then I'll mock you mercilessly for eternity}
I replied, then added: { You won't. You're braver than you think }
She sent back a simple heart emoji that made my own heart do a complicated maneuver in my chest. Real damn inconvenient, these feelings.
"Texting your girlfriend?"
I looked up to find Damien leaning against the garage entrance, looking considerably healthier than someone who'd called in sick should.
"Thought you were dying." I said, pocketing my phone.
"Miraculous recovery." He grinned, sauntering over. "So? Was that Samantha?"
"She's NOT my girlfriend," I said automatically, returning to the Williamson job.
"Right." Damien dragged out the word, hopping onto the workbench beside me. "You just spend every waking moment with her, look at her like she's the fucking sun, and get pissy whenever any guy talks to her. Totally platonic."
I tightened a bolt with more force than necessary. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Preferably far away from me?"
"Nah. Jen already busted me for playing hooky. Said I could make up hours this weekend." He picked up a wrench, twirling it between his fingers. "Seriously though, when are you gonna make a move? It's painful watching you two dance around each other."
"We're not dancing around anything," I muttered. "She's my friend."
"Bullshit. I've seen the way you look at her when you think no one's watching. And those poems you hide in your locker— "
I whipped around, pointing the socket wrench at him. "You went through my locker?"
Damien held up his hands. "Chill, man. I was looking for that socket set you borrowed. Stumbled on your little book of feelings." He smirked. "Gotta say, I didn't know you had it in you. 'Eyes like autumn honey'? Pretty deep shit for a guy who pretends to hate everything."
Heat crawled up my neck. "I will fucking end you if you ever mention that again."
"Your secret's safe with me," he said, though his grin suggested otherwise. "But seriously, why not tell her? What's the worst that could happen?"
I turned back to the engine, not wanting him to see my face. The worst that could happen? I could lose her. The one person who saw past my bullshit, who'd stuck by me through years of my father's neglect, my attitude problems, my deliberate underachieving.
The one steady thing in my life.
"It's... not like that," I said finally. "we're not like that."
Damien sighed dramatically. "Your funeral, man. Just don't come crying to me when some college douche snaps her up in September."
The thought sent an uncomfortable jolt through me. Sam leaving for college, probably somewhere prestigious that matched her brain, had been an abstract concept until now.
Suddenly it felt very real and very close.
"Don't you have work to do?" I snapped.
"Actually, I told Jen I'd help you close up." He hopped off the bench. "I'll start on the Williams Corolla."
The rest of the shift passed in relative silence, broken only by the radio and the occasional curse when a bolt wouldn't cooperate. By closing time, my back ached and my hands were stained with oil that no amount of industrial soap would completely remove. I changed quickly in the small bathroom, splashing water on my face and running damp fingers through my hair in a half-assed attempt at grooming.
"Hot date?" Damien asked when I emerged.
"Food," I corrected, shrugging on my leather jacket despite the heat. "Thought I'd stop by the Ellis bakery."
Damien's knowing grin made me want to punch him. "Right. For the bread. Not for the baker's sister."
"Fuck off," I said without heat, grabbing my helmet. "Lock up when you leave."