Page 25 of Rhodes

“You still hungry? I owe you lunch, at least, for taking the time to come all the way over here.”

My hand stills on the tool bag before I get it moving again.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Trey says.

“I’d like to.”

A socket rattles loose somewhere in the case. I stop inside the garage and set the bag down to fix it, although I could swear I latched the damn thing.

By the time I straighten, Tallulah is walking past the Cruiser I spent the better part of the morning underneath. She opens the passenger door of Trey’s puny-ass truck and climbs in.

She spreads her legs to get in. I’m drawn to the way her hip creases, her long thigh, and the strip of her back where the shirt lifts.

I have to catch my breath.

I stand inside the garage with grease ground black into every crease of my hands while his truck backs away from the curb.

He drove over here, did absolutely nothing, and somehow he is the one getting lunch. I got a thank-you and a lecture.

Apparently, being a good guy is a hell of a lot more satisfying when nobody else shows up to take credit for it.

EIGHT

Tilly

Paint Layers: A conservator scrapes a small square down through every color a room has ever been and reads the layers like sediment. What sits at the bottom is almost never the color anyone assumed was under there.

Trey pulls up to the curb, and I'm opening the door before he can put it in park. I desperately need some quiet time before my meeting and this lunch has already gone longer than I would have liked.

I hop out once he's in park.

"Thanks again." I hang on the open door a second. "I mean it. You gave up half your day and drove an hour for a car that was already running by the time you got there. I wish you would at least let me pay for your gas."

"You already fed me." He grins, easy about it, no bite anywhere in his voice. "A po'boy covers a lot of ground."

"I don't think it's enough, but I do appreciate it."

"Til, it's fine. Fresh air, decent sandwich, good company." He taps the wheel. "Not a bad time."

I shut the door and step back onto the grass. He waves two fingers off the brim of his cap and swings the truck around. The engine noise stretches thin down the street, then fades until there's nothing left but a lawn mower going somewhere two houses over.

The quiet drops down all at once. Rhodes's truck isn't in the driveway.

I climb the porch steps, pulling out my keys as I walk to the front door and let myself in. The house takes the sound of the door and swallows it. The hook where Rhodes keeps his gym bag is hanging empty, and the whole place is somehow bigger without him folded into his recliner in the living room. There's no SportsCenter blaring from the TV.

I drop my bag by the door. It hits the floor with a thunk, and my shoulders finally quit holding themselves up the way they've been since this morning.

I need water. I fill the glass I cleaned this morning and left in the drying rack, drinking half of it standing there. The cold of it startles against my teeth. I walk into the den and peer out of the front window.

My Land Cruiser sits there, front tires square on the pavement, fixed, waiting like nothing happened.

I set the glass down.

Here's the thing I couldn't say out there without sounding unhinged. I skipped lab for this. I made a plan, called and scheduled with Trey, who said if he couldn't fix it, he would at least know where to go from here. That was mine. My problem, my phone call, my time.

Rhodes managed something in my life without talking to me. He saw my car that wouldn't start, decided I hadn't dealt with it, and then took it upon himself. He erased the whole plan before I ever got to run it. That's the part that sits behind my eyes and aches.

I stare at my fixed car through the glass, and there's no one left to argue with about it.