Screwed, page 4
She laughs, nodding. “Yeah, I was.” Imogen sobers, then. “I get it, Nova. I really do.”
“I’m sorry, Im. I really am. I’ve been fighting this realization for weeks now, but last night it just…it all came to a head. I was looking at venues for the reception, and one of them was the place I’d picked for Craig’s and my reception. And I just…I lost it.”
“I understand, I promise.” She reaches into her folder, rifles to the very back, where she has a business card for another local event planner tucked into the very bottom of the folder pocket. “I felt you pulling away from this for a while now, and while I was hoping you’d keep going, I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared in case my intuition was right.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with this? I care about you, and our friendship, Imogen. I just—”
Imogen wraps me up in a tight hug. “I promise you, I’m fine. There’s plenty of time. And plus, this way, you get to be in the wedding and party with us at the reception.”
I grin as I pull away from the hug. “Thanks for understanding.”
She shrugs. “We’ve all got our stuff, you know?” She eyes me sideways, and there’s not time to forestall the comment I feel coming. “James has his stuff, too.”
“ARGH!” I shout, shooting to my feet. “Not this again.”
She bites her lip, hiding a smirk. “Wow, okay. Abrupt reaction.”
“I just got the full-court press from Laurel about it. I seriously can’t handle anyone else trying to push me and James together.”
“No one is trying to push anyone,” Imogen says. “It just makes sense, and you guys have obvious chemistry. We just don’t know why you both refuse to see it.”
“We see it, okay?” I snap, knowing I’m unfairly lashing out at Imogen. “We see it. We’ve acknowledged it. We just don’t want to act on it.”
Imogen shakes her head. “That I do not comprehend. But it’s your life, your business. I just want to see you happy.”
I frown. “Who says I’m not?”
Imogen purses her lips to one side. “Ummm, well?”
I huff. “Never mind, I don’t want to hear the answer to that.”
Imogen snorts a laugh. “In denial?”
“If that’s what you want to call it, sure.” I stand up and give her a hug. “I have some things I need to get done at home.”
Imogen walks me to the door. “Skedaddling just in time, huh?”
I frown at her, pausing on the porch. “What do you mean?”
She gestures at the tools. “The guys are all working here today. They just had to go pick up some supplies. By which I mean they used the excuse of needing more nails as a reason to day-drink, but whatever. I’m getting a pretty remodel done for the cost of materials, so who am I to begrudge them some lunchtime beers on a Saturday?” She points down the road at Jesse’s truck, which is approaching with a throaty diesel rumble. “Here they come now.”
I groan. “Yeah, I better get going before everyone shows up and I have to go through yet another round of James this, and James that.”
Imogen laughs. “Smart. Jesse and Franco are just as bad about the gossip and drama as the rest of us girls.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I say as I head down the steps. “For a bunch of big, macho construction dudes, they sure do like to yap.”
Imogen cackles. “Oh, honey, you have no idea. Jesse’s favorite topic for pillow talk is gossip.”
I hang in the open door of my car a moment. “Gossip? About what? The rest of you guys are all shacked up and happy, so what is there to gossip about?”
She shakes her head. “You’d think, but no. The whole contractor, construction community around here is very, very small, so all the guys know everyone else. Going to Home Depot for them is like going to the salon for us—they hang out in the power tools and lumber departments gossiping about which guy nailed which girl and in which position. It’s funny, actually.”
“Jesse told you this?”
She nods, laughing harder. “Oh yeah. I know the names of every carpenter, electrician, plumber, roofer, framer, drywaller, painter, and flooring guy within fifty miles, and who they’re hooking up with, divorcing, and cheating with, or cheating on.”
I laugh. “Who knew?”
She holds up her hands. “I sure as hell didn’t.” Right then, Jesse’s truck idles to a stop at the curb, and he and Franco hop out. “Hey, babe!” Imogen calls. “How was the beer?”
Jesse pats his belly. “Delicious. I only had seven, though, so don’t worry.”
Imogen rolls her eyes. “You big ol’ fibber.”
He jogs up the steps and kisses Imogen, one hand on her cheek and another big paw resting possessively on her very slightly rounded belly. “Can’t get anything past you. We each had two, and probably more chili cheese fries than any two humans should be able to eat.”
Imogen pats his cheek. “I guess I’ll need to make sure we have Pepto for later, huh? You know how those things give you indigestion.” She eyes Franco. “I thought you didn’t eat that crap, Franco?”
Franco shrugs. “I don’t, usually. But I give myself one tasty treat every Saturday afternoon. This week, it was chili cheese fries. Next week, it’s gonna be a whole pizza, I’m thinking.”
Jesse eyes me. “Whassup, Nova? How you doin’?” He says this in a funny and terrible approximation of a New York accent.
“Going home, that’s how I’m doing,” I say. “Just had to have a quick chat with Imogen.”
Jesse elbows Franco with a meaningful expression exchanged between them. “You quit?” His question is addressed to me.
I blink at him. “What?” Both men hold carefully blank expressions. “What do you mean?”
He arches an eyebrow at me, and then looks at his fiancée, and then back at me. “You did, didn’t you?”
I glance quizzically at Imogen, who just shrugs and shakes her head.
“I been thinking you’re gonna quit the wedding sometime this week, and Franco says next week. We got a hundred bucks riding on it, so tell me—who won?”
“You guys were betting on whether I’d quit planning your wedding?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around the idea.
He shrugs, nods. “Well, yeah. You’ve been more uptight than ever lately—and saying this as a friend, babe…that’s really saying something. So I figured you’d end up quitting sooner than later, for reasons you don’t seem inclined to share.”
I blink, hard. I know his words were coming from a teasing, friendly place, but they still hurt, for reasons I don’t quite want to examine at that moment.
Imogen frowns up at Jesse. “Jesse, baby—not cool. That was insensitive of you.”
I shove down my emotions and paste a smile on my face—years of nursing has taught me how to do that with the best of them. “It’s cool, Imogen. He couldn’t have known.” I click my tongue and shoot a finger gun at Jesse. “You win, bud.”
Jesse seems confused. “I…shit. Sorry, Nova. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine, honestly. I’m hard to offend.” I glance at Imogen, then. “You can fill him in. I’ve told that story twice in the last twelve hours, and I don’t think I’ve got the energy for it at the moment.”
I go out to my car, slide onto the sagging cloth seat of my Explorer, buckle up, and start the engine. Or rather, I try to—it wheezes, rattles, and refuses to turn over. I groan in annoyance, give it a second, and then try again, and fortunately this time it starts. Albeit, the belt squeaks, the pistons rattle, and the gas gauge doesn’t work, but it runs, and it gets me from point A to point B.
I grew up driving the newest, slickest, fanciest cars. If I wanted an upgrade, all I had to do was ask. I didn’t pay for gas, didn’t pay insurance, and I had an unlimited credit card. I got a new Mercedes every year and, on my eighteenth birthday, I got a Ferrari. Which I crashed within a week, and got it replaced with a Range Rover Autobiography a week later because the power of the Ferrari scared me.
So, when I left for college, I sold the year-old Range Rover for cash, bought this Explorer new, and have driven it ever since, and plan to drive it into the ground. I clip coupons, never buy anything that’s not on sale, pay cash for everything, and save at least 70 percent of my income. Not because I have to—I make good money at the hospital and have no dependents and very few bills—but because I choose to live a drastically different lifestyle than my parents provided for me growing up.
I’m probably never going to get married or have kids, but if I ever do, I’ll do it differently than my parents did, that’s for sure.
I’m less than two miles from home, stopped at a red light, and…rattle, rattle, sputter, jerk…silence.
“FUCK.”
I just filled the gas tank two days ago, so it’s not out of gas; I changed the oil myself a month ago, so it’s not that. It’s just…dead.
I turn on my emergency flashers, roll down my window, and wave for the people behind me to go around. I shove the shifter into neutral and get out of the car, wait for traffic to clear, and then brace myself in the open door of the car and start pushing. The big bitch is heavy, but I’m a strong girl and I get it moving. I angle across the intersection for a Walgreens parking lot, ignoring the honks and shouts for me to move out of the way.
And then, suddenly, my Explorer becomes a hell of a lot easier to move. I glance backward, and see a shape through the rear window—just a head and shoulders, but I know exactly who it is.
No one else I know has shoulders like that, mountain-wide and bull-heavy.
James.
I’m not about to turn down the help, because he’s basically pushing the SUV by himself at this point, and I’m about gassed from pushing it as far as I have.
Together, we get my car off the road and into the Walgreens parking lot, and when it’s parked out of the way, I lean in, shove the shifter into park, and collapse against the frame, sweating and panting, hands on my knees.
I hear his feet on the ground, and straighten just in time to see him rest one massive, burly shoulder against the window.
“Nova. Thought this was your car.”
“Yep.” I pat my now-deceased vehicle on the hood. “Looks like I’m in the market for a new one, huh?”
“She’s a goner?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I’ve been expecting it for a while, now. It’s probably something fixable, but it’ll cost more than the car is worth, at this point.” I kick a tire. “She’s got close to two hundred thousand miles on her, so I’d say she’s served me well.”
James makes an impressed face. “Wow. You bought her new and have driven her ever since?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. Drove her off the lot, paid her off, and drove her into the ground.” I can’t help but brag a little. “I did pretty much all the routine maintenance myself, actually. Oil changes, stuff like that.”
“Huh. That’s impressive. Renée didn’t even like to put gas in her car herself.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Course, I couldn’t boil water, so it all evened out.”
He seems embarrassed to have mentioned his dead wife, and scuffs his big brown Red Wing boot against the ground.
“There was a period of time I was too broke to be able to afford oil changes, so I taught myself, and now I actually kind of enjoy it, so I kept doing it myself even after I could afford to have someone else do it.” I hunt for something else to say, to cut through the awkwardness.
“Impressive,” James says again.
I thump the back of my foot against the dead SUV’s tire again. “So, I guess, I uh…I have to get a tow truck and a cab home. So…thanks for the help. I appreciate it.”
James’s brow furrows for a moment, and then he slides a first-generation iPhone out of his pocket—the device is encased in a battered, scratched, paint-stained OtterBox. He scrolls through his contacts, taps one, brings the phone to his ear.
“Hey, Bill. Got your flatbed? Friend of mine has a dead car. Walgreens at…Fourth and Washington. Nah, man, it’s a goner.” He gives me a look. “It’s a ninety-six?”
I nod. “Yeah. But I don’t need you to—”
“Ninety-six Explorer. Two hundred thousand miles.”
“James—”
He holds up a finger to stall me. “Nah, man. It’s worth more than that just in parts and you know it.” James pauses, listens. “Seven-fifty?…fine. Five hundred—got yourself a deal. Great. Thanks, Bill. See you shortly.”
I blink. “James.”
He grins, a rare and brilliant sight. “My buddy owns a wrecking service and parts yard. He’s gonna come get your girl, and he’ll give you five hundred in cash for it.”
I shake my head. “James, that thing is dead. It’s not worth five hundred dollars.”
He just lifts a bull-like shoulder. “Sure it is. The body is in great condition, very little rust, no big dents or scratches. The interior looks like it’s in similarly good shape. I’m guessing your pistons are shot, and you’ve probably got an internal oil leak, meaning it’s leaking somewhere inside and burning up so you never see spots on your garage floor or whatever.” He gestures at the Explorer. “Between the body, interior, transmissions, axles, suspension, all that, yeah, it’s worth five hundred easy. He’ll make that in parts plus a profit. Trust me. You’re still getting a decent chunk of cash for a dead car. Take it and run, I say.”
I sigh. “Fine.” I eye him. “I owe you more thanks, then. I’d have had it towed to a junkyard and paid money to get rid of it.”
He juts his chin at the road—I see his massive truck idling with the flashers blinking toward the back of the right turn lane. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”
I hesitate. “I half live out of my car. So, if your friend is towing it away, I’ll need to clean it out.”
He nods. “Oh, right. Okay, well I’ll grab my truck and run it over here.”
I frown. “I’m fine, James. Thanks.”
He frowns back. “Why would I let you take a cab when I’m here? Besides, good luck getting a cab around here. Tried that once, after the boys and I tied on a few too many. Took almost an hour to get anyone to show up at Billy Bar, and the asshole charged us fifty bucks for a twenty-minute ride. So no, you’re not taking a cab.”
He’s right and I know it. It just galls me to accept help from anyone, but especially him. Plus, the prospect of being alone with him in his truck scares me. Just standing here with him has my head, heart, and body all at odds.
I huff in annoyance. “Fine. You’re right.” I wipe my face with both hands, and then run them through my hair. “Okay. Grab your truck.”
When I said I live out of my car, I wasn’t kidding. It’s not trashed inside, but there’s twenty-two years’ worth of detritus in it—dirty scrubs, clean scrubs, sports bras, running shoes, work shoes, ankle socks, old partially empty purses, various charger cords for various brands and generations of cell phones, a tape-deck adapter for an MP3 player that’s also floating around here somewhere, a cigarette lighter charger cord for my phone, a case of CDs, lots of trash, Tupperware containers that once contained leftovers and which now contain their own ecology, a pair of kettlebells, a tennis racket, an emergency kit containing a gallon of water, a thick wool blanket, a winter hat and gloves, thick wool socks, a crank-powered flashlight, some protein bars, a spare car battery, and a collapsible trenching shovel.
While James goes to get his truck, I run into Walgreens and buy a couple of storage bins, and toss all the random, still-useful items into it, and then throw out all the trash. I empty out the console and glove box, and then the trunk, and then check under all the seats. Once the vehicle is empty of all my belongings, I figure I may as well toss the random crap I no longer want or need, and go through the bins, trashing the cords, adapters, and other stuff I haven’t used in years. James has his truck over here by now, and he’s idling in the parking spot next to me; his window is down, a burly, hairy arm hanging out, fingers tapping to the rhythm of the jazz wafting through the speakers.
A long flatbed truck pulls into the parking lot and stops, backing up near my SUV. A short, portly, dirty, bushy-bearded man with messy graying black hair hops down, wearing blue mechanic’s coveralls, a pair of cloth work gloves clutched in one hand. He ambles over to me, smiling a chewing tobacco-stained grin at me.
“Bill Moynihan,” he says, in a fast, gruff, friendly voice. “You the proud owner of this very nice piece o’shit?”
I laugh. “Yes, I am. Nova Benson.”
He gestures at the Explorer. “Mind if I give’er a quick once-over?”
I shrug. “Be my guest.”
I lean against the warm hood of James’s truck, the diesel vibrating through me. Bill pops the hood first, sticks his head in, twists and pokes and rattles and peers, tries the ignition, listening carefully, and then does a much quicker look around the outside—he even flops to his back and pokes his head underneath, and then hops to his feet and shuffles over to me.
He reaches into the open front of his coveralls and withdraws a greasy fingerprint-stained envelope. “She’s in great shape, aside from bein’ dead as a doornail. I think you’ve got an internal oil leak, and some fucked-up pistons. Won’t know until I take her apart, but I’d say you’re making the right decision, junking her.” He hands me the envelope. “Five hundred, as agreed.”
I hand him the title and take the envelope. “Thank you, Bill.”
He stuffs the title inside his coveralls. “My pleasure.” He hands me a business card. “If you ever need a tow again, gimme a call. Any friend of Jimbo’s is a friend of mine. I can do minor roadside repairs too, I should mention.”
I take the card and extend my hand. “Thank you, that’s good to know.”
He slides his work glove off and shakes my hand. “My pleasure, my pleasure.” He jerks a thumb at the Explorer. “All right, well…I’m gonna load her up and get her to the yard. Now’s the time to say goodbye, if you’re the sentimental type.”
I’m not, usually, but I’ve been driving that Explorer since I was eighteen. It’s the first thing I ever bought on my own. I’ve put thousands of dollars into keeping it running, spent countless hours changing oil and washing and vacuuming and cleaning. I’ve had some memorable sex in the back seat—Craig was…adventurous, and spontaneous, until he got sick.
