Page 75 of Someone Like Me
But once I get to work…
I don’t know. Time seems to skim like a speed skater on ice. I pull myself back from inside the hood to find all trace of daylight gone, moths and mosquitos crowding the air in the garage, the former trying to mob the overhead light, and the latter mobbing me.
C & C closes at two on Saturdays, and I’m on duty until then, so I don’t get back to the Supra until a little after three, but the quality of the air has changed. A shift in the breeze this morning has brought in a dry north wind that makes it easier to breathe. This breeze even smells different, more like the tang of fall instead of the hot breath of summer.
I stand in the doorway of the Grandma’s garage, picturing Anthony behind the wheel and wondering what the hell he’d think if he could see me messing with his baby. This is the ritual, or at least part of it, I have to pass through just to approach the hood.
And when I do, I see that one of the cylinders, by some miracle, has run clear.
I thump the engine with one side of my fist. The other cylinders don’t look like they’ve drained at all, but one out of six is better than none.
I work on refitting hoses for a couple of hours and stop when Grandma calls from her kitchen door to say dinner is ready.
Over a meal of baked ham and biscuits, Grandma Quincy proceeds to tell me that I should go to the party around the corner.
I finish off a buttered biscuit dressed with ham and Steen’s syrup before responding. “Well, I would, Grandma, but since I live here rent-free and eat from your table, breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” I wave my hand over the meal she’s made to illustrate my point, echoing the words she threw at me days ago, “I need to be sure I’m making it worth your while. And you’ve given me a job to do.”
Grandma Q eyes me, her mouth a flat line. She’s clearly unimpressed with my little speech, but I think she gets the message. I’m only going to fall for one manipulation tactic at a time.
What I don’t tell her is that working on Anthony’s car, as hard as it is, scares me a hell of a lot less than wading into a crowd of strangers to face Evie Lalonde. Just because I don’t want to encourage Evie doesn’t make me a masochist. In the mix of her friends and neighbors — all free of felony records — I’d stand out like a bruise.
She needs to see me for who I am, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch it happen. Watch the look on her face change — growing awkward and embarrassed, and maybe even a little sick — when she realizes I was never fit for her company.
It’s with this cheerful thought that I return to the garage after dinner. Maybe it’s this promise of Evie’s eventual rejection and maybe it’s the escape from Grandma Quincy’s disappointment, but despite the evidence of my guilt, the garage feels like a retreat. I get back to work.
I’m replacing the radiator hose when I catch salsa music in the distance. It’s around eight o’clock. I look up to see the graying dusk in the sky and make out the sounds of Marc Anthony’s “I Need to Know.”
I wonder what she’s wearing.
The temptation just to walk down the side street to catch a glimpse of her assaults me like a rogue wave. I shake it off, knowing it’s madness, but I go to the old radio and turn up the volume on “This is America” just in case.
And I keep working… for hours.
At least my hands keep working. In my mind’s eye, I imagine the lengthening hours and the slow trickling away of party guests. What if I let myself loose tonight when the streets go quiet? Would I find her after midnight, cleaning up red Solo cups and paper plates?
Could I approach her then like a stray dog looking for scraps?
She’d take me in if I were that stray dog. I know this like I know my own name. And then I’d be able to watch over her night and day. Make sure no losers like that Drake asshole could get within groping distance of her. Lay down at the foot of her bed and never want anything more.
I’m so deep in this ridiculous stray dog fantasy, I don’t hear the footsteps.
In fact, I notice nothing until a shadow falls over my left side, and I look up with a start. I’m bent double under the hood, and I straighten up so fast at the sight of her I nearly take my head off.
We stare at each other for a moment. Me, shocked as hell because I feel like I’ve conjured her. Evie, more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her and looking, I quickly realize, seriously pissed.
Her dress is a pale blue cotton, off-the-shoulder with a wide ruffle that wraps all the way around her. It’s so short I feel a gut-check when my eyes skim her bare thighs.
I swallow and then blink when I take in the thermos dangling from her left hand and the two plastic cups she carries in her right.
My eyes meet hers. “What are you doing, Evie?”
She blinks then, and I notice her eyes are a little glassy, her eye makeup smudged. Just barely. She’s been drinking. Not a lot, if my guess is right, but enough.
“Coming to find you. What does it look like I’m doing?” And the way she says it confirms she’s pissed at me.
She has every right to be. I’ve been an asshole to her. But obviously not enough of one because here she is.
And, God, it’s so good to see her.
