I slide out from beneath the motor of Jorgie’s beloved 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle SS. It is a piece of shit rust bucket she purchased over eight years ago, but she loves it like it is her own child. After nagging me relentlessly for the past three years to assist her in restoring it, I managed to squeeze in a couple of hours this afternoon to replace the carburetor.
My time has become a little more flexible since I returned from my second tour in Afghanistan. Since I'm unemployed and unable to sleep, I have more hours in the day than ever before. Sleep has never been a close friend of mine, and when I joined the Air Force, it became an even more distant acquaintance.
“By replacing the faulty carby, it should be drivable again, but you have a whole heap of other issues you need to have a mechanic look at before you can even consider getting behind the wheel," I inform her, wiping chunks of black grease from my hands with an old rag hanging over the radio antenna. "Does Hawke know you are trying to getbabyback on the road?”
Jorgie stops peering at the gathering of storm clouds on the horizon and stares at me. Her little button nose is screwed up tightly, and her lips are pursed, but she remains as quiet as a mouse. My lips tug high when I see in the guilt marring her eyes.
“You know Hawke doesn’t want you driving this around, Jorgie. It isn’t safe for you or your little bun in the oven,” I chide, poking my index finger into the round curve of her pregnant stomach.
“Ouch,” she murmurs, rubbing the area I poked, feigning injury.
Her blue eyes lift to mine. They are glistening with the usual mischievousness that always sparks her eyes. "He never complained about me driving it when we used to take it up to the Mt. Louis lookout during summer break," she replies, waggling her manicured brows.
I inwardly gag. The last image I want in my head is my little sister making out in the backseat of a car with my best mate. Some images you can never wash from your memories. When she notices my scrunched-up face, her small giggles bounce around the dingy garage.
“You do know there is only one way this baby got inside my belly, don’t you, Hugo?” she jests, her tone thickly drenched with cheekiness.
“Yeah, I’m fully aware,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I want to hear all the explicit details coming out of your dirty little mouth.”
Her giggles increase as she bounces on her heels. Jorgie and I are close, and I don't mean by our difference in age. We are two peas in a pod, both rebels cruising through life one adventure at a time. Although she found her Achilles heel and is expecting her first baby in a few months' time, her cheeky antics and playful disposition keep Hawke on his toes, even when he is on the other side of the world.
Hawke is currently deployed to Iraq. He is on his second and final tour as part of the First Battalion. With all troops being pulled from Iraq by the end of the year, it is the perfect time for him to leave the service.
My suspicions became piqued when Jorgie scratches her brow. It’s a nervous trait she does every time she’s either in trouble or is creating trouble. I cock my head to the side and arch my brow. The corners of her mouth lift as she tries to conceal a smirk.
“What are you up to, Jorgie?” I ask as I release the latch on the hood of her car. The loud crack of heavy steel clanking back into place rumbles through the quietness of the late afternoon.
Jorgie’s teeth gnaw on the side of her lip as her hand fiddles the oversized button on her shirt. “You don’t have any plans tonight, right?” she queries.
Even though she is asking a question, she continues talking, not waiting for a response.
“Because I'm cooking that chicken dish you love, with a side of ribs, mashed potatoes, green beans--”
“What are you up to, Jorgie?” I ask again, overemphasizing her name in a thick drawl that relays I’m not buying her bullshit offer of cooking me a free meal. Jorgie only ever cooks when she is scheming a plan or sucking up after her last failed scheme.
Her already large eyes widen, making them stand out even more than normal. “Ava is coming over for dinner.”
I cringe. “That’s nice; I’m sure you’ll enjoy the company,” I reply, moving to the corrosion-riddled driver’s side door to crank the engine.
A grin carves on my mouth when the motor kicks over on the first turn of the ignition. I’ve never studied to be a mechanic, but I picked up some useful skills during my wild ride from rebellious teen to even more insubordinate man. I rev the engine, trying to quell Jorgie’s ramblings, but I still manage to catch portions of the same pleas she has declared a minimum of once a day since I returned from my tour in Afghanistan.
“She is the perfect match for you, Hugo. She has a well-paying, stable job, owns a three-bedroom apartment in that fancy new building on the river. I went there last month; the views are too die for. Mom and dad already know and love her, and even Helen’s given her approval. And you know Helen; you have to be valedictorian four years in a row to get the smallest smidgen of attention from Helen,” she jests.
I rev the engine more. It’s not a requirement to check the capabilities of the motor, but it does successfully drown out Jorgie’s incessant blubbering. Everything she is saying I’ve heard a million times before. Ever since Ava moved back to town, Jorgie has made it her mission to force Ava and me together. She gathers since she is marrying my best mate, I should marry hers. In her head, it makes perfect sense. She just failed to get the memo that I’m not interested in dating anyone right now, let alone getting married.
Once Jorgie finally stops jabbering long enough to inhale a much-needed breath of air, I release the heavy compression of my foot on the accelerator.
Jorgie crosses her arms in front of her chest and glares at me. “Deny it all you want, Hugo, but you can’t fight fate. One day, you and Ava are going to be together, and you are going to have me to thank for it.”
A lewd grin curls on my lips. Jorgie’s favorite quote since the day she met Hawke has been “You can’t fight fate.” I’ll admit they did meet in unusual circumstances. Most saw it as luck; Jorgie saw it as fate.
“What have you got against Ava anyway?” she queries, pacing closer to me. “You used to be close when you were younger.”
What Jorgie is saying is true. Back in our teen days, Ava and I were close. It was a weird hidden kinship only a handful of people were aware of. But circumstances change. People change. I’ve changed. I’m no longer a teenage boy who can’t control his cock around a beautiful girl. I’m a grown man, a man whose skins crawls when anyone mentions the dreaded M and C words: marriage and commitment.
Cranking my head to the side, I catch Jorgie’s murderous glare staring at me, silently demanding an answer to her question.
I smirk. “For one, Ava’s a dentist. You know I hate dentists,” I reply, giving her the same excuse I’ve given the past two months.
