Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Just finish your burger.” I playfully nudge his plate. “No one is allowed to sulk inside Biggie’s Bites. It’s a rule. Mrs. Tucker will come out and swat your booty with a spatula.”
Cash snorts at that image—not quite a laugh, but not quite not a laugh—then does just what I say, picking his burger back up, and I’m allowed back into my french fry fantasy land.
I actually finish quite a lot at the store before locking up and heading home. So it’s with a feeling of accomplishment that I pull into my driveway, thinking I might treat myself to an evening tea.
That’s when I see Diego out with his car.
Hood up.
Toolbox at his side.
I haven’t seen him working on that car in days.
He looks up the moment I step out of the car. Meets my eyes.
He seems a little frozen suddenly.
I’m first to break the ice, lifting a hand and giving him a wave.
He licks his lips absently, as if deciding what to do, like my act of waving at him was a puzzle he’s gotta solve. Then, after a shift of his weight from one leg to the other, he just gives me a grunt and a nod before dipping his head back under the hood.
I smirk, pocket my car keys, and head across the lawn.
“Is she purring yet?” I ask.
Diego—who clearly did not notice me coming over instead of heading inside—lifts his head so fast that it bangs the hood. With a grimace and a scowl, he rubs his head and mumbles, “What?”
“The car.”
His eyes stab me accusatorily, like I meant to sneak on up and startle him. Then he seems to decide to let it go. “Nah. Gonna be tinkering with this for a long time yet.”
“Can’t figure out what’s wrong?”
He sighs. “Nope. Think it’s one thing. Then another.” He flings a rag over his shoulder after wiping his hands, then stops. “Did … everything go okay at the, uh, flower place?”
For a moment, I’m pleasantly taken aback that he just asked how my day went.
Then I realize what he’s actually asking. “Mr. Asshole did not drop in today, no need to worry.”
“Not worried. He can choke on a snail’s butthole for all I care. Just curious about you.”
That takes me aback. Again. “Well … thanks. It went well.”
He nods slowly, not quite looking at me. “Good.”
Are we having an actual conversation? “And … you?”
“What about me? Oh.” He shrugs. “Shop was slow today. Carl was … talkative. Again. Guy needs a friend, seriously.”
“Oh, Lee and Toby’s dad? Yeah. He gets talkative. Better than getting drunk. He … kinda used to have a problem.” I catch myself suddenly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to gossip. I trust you. Far as I know, he’s been sober for two years, maybe three. I see his wife Marlene at church on Sundays. His stepson leaving town really did a weird number on him.”
“You always this concerned about everyone?” asks Diego.
I wonder if the real question he’s asking is if I’m always this nosy about people. For a moment, I don’t know how to answer.
He almost asked the question politely, for one.
Second, he’s got a point.
“Probably.”
He glances at me.
I shrug. “It’s exhausting.”
He casts his gaze aside, lowering his head. “Sounds like it.” He rubs at a spot on his jaw, then starts busying himself under the hood again as I stand next to him, watching.
After a moment, I take a step closer. “Can I help?”
He doesn’t look up. “Nah.”
I cross my arms, drum my fingers, fidget. “You sure?”
He says nothing. Then he blinks hard, sighs, and says, “Hand me the thirteen.”
I freeze. “You need thirteen of … what …?”
He looks up. “Wrench.”
I turn to the toolbox near him—and the array of wrenches.
All matters of wrenches.
“The thirteenth one from the … left?”
He snorts—does that count as a laugh?—turns, takes one of the wrenches out, then shows it to me. “Thirteen millimeter. If it’s not this one I need, it’s the ten.” He lifts another one, gives it a wiggle, then sets it back in the toolbox. “Or, if you want, you can just keep to your wildflower experiment that looks like it’s going fairly well, and I’ll …” He glances back at the engine with a sigh. “… continue pretending like I know what in the hell I’m doing.”
I smile. “Sorry. I’m probably not as helpful with this as I’d like to be. Total fish outta water when it comes to car stuff.”
“Everyone starts somewhere.”
He dives back into the engine.
I lean my hip against the side of the car, watching him work. He doesn’t seem to mind, otherwise I might take him up on that suggestion of just minding the flowerbed.
I wonder if he minds conversation. “So this car means a lot to you, huh?”
He pauses. Then cranks the wrench some more. Pauses again. “Ten.”