Hayes
The last time I saw Brady Gibson, I made sure it was the last time I would see his blond curls and soft eyes. So, when I look over at my buzzing phone on the shelf of the garage pit where I’ve been changing dirty oil for the past seven hours straight, I don’t see him. I see a warning. I programmed an image with big red letters: DO NOT ANSWER. No name, just the order from my most clear-headed self to a version of myself that may not have the same willpower. The phone buzzes again and even though my hands are covered in black grease I grab it and shove it under a dirty rag, so I don’t have to think about it. There’s no way I’m answering that call.
I open the grate above me to access the chassis of the Hyundai Elantra I’m working on. I get a new oil filter and drain the engine, but my mind is still on that call. What could Brady want? After we broke up, we decided we both needed to move on. We knew it wasn’t possible for us to stay friends after dating most of junior and senior year. I’ve been so focused on earning enough money to make the next deposit for medical school that I’ve been too busy to think about him.
But that’s not totally true. Sometimes after a double shift at the garage, when I’m so dead tired I can’t get my mind and body to shut down, I let my hand move under the waistband of my shorts and thoughts of him race through my mind. Brady grabbing me from behind and squeezing me when he would see me on campus. Brady making those ridiculous care kits with puzzles, my favorite cheese cracker sandwiches and a note telling me I’ll be an amazing doctor. Brady sleeping in my arms with his head in the crook of my arm. I think about the light blond almost translucent hair on his forearms that’s more like peach fuzz, and my fingers brushing it softly. Once my mind goes there, I can’t stop the rest of my body from responding.
Dirty oil starts to pour out from above me and I suddenly remember that I forgot to move the catch pan. Filthy black liquid sprays my coveralls and pours to the ground.
“I got a spill in the pit!” I yell, and I hear Carl shout back: “Spill in the pit!” Black grease soaks through to my skin.Fuck. Brady. Why are you calling me now? This is your fault.
I’m covered in filth and now I’ve got to stay down here until the bulge that’s forming under my coveralls goes down. Why does even the thought of this guy still have this effect on me? I do not want to be with him. I don’t even like him anymore, unless my dick knows something I don’t know.
I grab a few rags to clear away some of the slime. I pull out the new oil filter and get some grease to lube the rim, realizing that this action is not going to help me kick Brady out of my mind. Why is he calling me? We both know the friction between our completely different backgrounds made it impossible to move forward. At least it’s only a few months until I earn enough with double shifts at the garage to make my final deposit so I can start at North Boston Medical in the fall. I’ll be so deep in respiratory systems and immunology that a call from him won’t even make me blink.
I hop out of the pit and I’m about to head out to shower and change before my night shift at the convenience store when Carl calls me into his office. Carl is my dad’s best friend; the two of them taught me everything I know about how to fix things and the importance of carefully examining an issue piece by piece. Being a mechanic and being a doctor are very similar. They’re both about diagnostics, repairs, making things run smoothly.
“Hey, kid. Can I talk to you a second?”
“Sure,” I say, glad for the distraction. Less chance I’ll get the urge to check my phone to see what Brady wants.
Carl’s office is a war zone of invoices, half unboxed parts and ancient decor. He’s got one of those totally inappropriate calendars with some sexy girl holding a wrench. I know it’s wrong but damn she’s hot, and with the state I’m in, I try not to look at it as I take a seat.
Carl sits behind his desk but won’t look at me. I wonder if I’m in trouble. “I’m sorry about that spill today. It was my fault. I can come in early tomorrow and make sure it’s cleaned up.” Carl’s office may be a mess, but he keeps the garage spotless and perfectly organized.
“Don’t worry about it.” He rubs his face with his hand. “I didn’t call you in here to talk about that. Look, Hayes, I know you need this job for school.” I do not like where this is going. “I’ve looked at the numbers every way I can. I was hoping to last until the end of the summer but nothing works. It’s these damn chain garages pushing us out.” He shakes his head and looks down.
This is not good. I need this job until I leave, but the garage is Carl’s life. He’s owned it since before I was born. “Carl. I’m sorry. Are you going to be okay?”
“Me? Yeah. The land this is on is worth more than the business.” He gets up from his desk and comes over to me. “Hayes, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
I have no doubt he’s held off selling for this long because he was trying to help me. He pats me on the head like he did when I was a little kid. I understand the predicament he’s in, but it doesn’t do anything to make me feel better.
I assure Carl I’ll be fine, and that he’s doing what’s best for his family. I paste a calm expression on my face, stand up, and shake his hand. I nod when he tells me he’ll see me at my dad’s after church this weekend. I head out of his office to my truck. Maybe I can make this work. A few extra overnight shifts at the convenience store. Some landscaping on the weekends. I know how much I need for the next payment for medical school down to the penny. I quickly do the math, but there aren’t enough hours left in the summer to earn what I need without the shifts at the garage.
I get into my truck, make sure the door is closed and scream at the top of my lungs. What the serious fuck am I going to do?
Chapter 3
Pre-departure
Brady
My niece’s favorite song, “Stop! In the Name of Love,” plays in my head as I press my finger into the thick glob of red finger paint and smush it across the paper, until it collides with the blue. I should be cleaning up the playroom after an intense round of making art with Gemma, but keeping my fingers covered in paint means I won’t be able to slide my phone out of my pocket to check for a message from Hayes. I don’t know why I thought I’d just call him, and he’d pick up the phone like nothing has happened. Like we didn’t have a terrible breakup that made us walk away from each other with a promise to go our separate ways.
After my beach walk, I spent the afternoon in the playroom of the main house with my niece working on our finger-painting skills. At the age of five, hers far exceed mine. She knows her primary colors and wants to learn all the combinations she can make. Playing with Gemma is the only thing that causes me to forget everything else.
I toss the painting I’ve been working on in the garbage and rinse my hands in the sink so I can finish cleaning up. I watch the water run over my hands. Red and blue swirl together effortlessly making a vibrant shade of purple. But then bits of yellow, orange and green from my wrists join in and turn the water brown as it runs down the drain. That’s what happens when too many outside colors try to get in on red and blue’s thing.
I move back to the table and start scrubbing the spots where the paint dried. I could text him, but what I have to ask is way too complicated. I practice what I’ll say to him as I’m cleaning. “Hey there, Hayes, I’m the last person you may want to speak to after—” I swallow hard and catch my breath. “After what happened. But I’ve got a once in a lifetime opportunity I know you’ll want to hear about.” Something like that. I’ll leave out the part about how we have to pretend to be a couple. For now. I need to get past the first challenge before I go to the final boss.
My mom passes by the playroom. She must be on her way to the dry sauna, it’s the only reason she’s ever in this wing. She stands in the doorway and sighs loudly. There are finger paints spread out across the table, pieces of construction paper cut into the shapes I’m trying to teach Gemma, and dried pasta glued to cardboard where we were making collages.
“Brady, please let me have one of the staff come in here to finish cleaning up.” She walks in and shudders. Her hands grab opposite elbows in case a stray dribble of paint or glue somehow magically attaches to her lilac cashmere Loro Piana sweater.
“Mom, it’s a playroom. It’s supposed to be messy so we can, you know, play.” I was at boarding school by the time I was eight, so I didn’t have anything like this when I was a kid. When my sister, Claire, said she thought Gemma would like a playroom at the estate in Hamptons, I took over the planning. I loved choosing the bold-colored letters on the wall, the carpet with a highway of roads offering endless adventure and washable walls with two sinks to help with clean up.
My mother surveys the disarray. “I could have Lisa come in, or someone else from the staff could do a deep clean. Maybe the new woman with the red hair. Mary.”
