“I’m visiting family for a week or so.” I try blotting up the oil, but it only seems to make it worse.
“Oh, me too,” he says. “Well, notmyfamily—well, kind of my family…”
But I’m not really listening. I’m too distracted by the stain that’s setting deeper into my tank top. “I’m not sure this is helping.” I give up and hand the rag back to him.
“Can I replace it for you?” he offers. And for a second, I’m hit with an image of him whipping off his hoodie and handing it to me, exposing what I’m sure is a golden, toned chest. But then my braincatches up to reality, and I realize he’s offering to buy me a new shirt—not give me the literal one off his back.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I have half a dozen just like it.” The now-ruined tank top is from my athleisure line.
“If it’s any consolation, the black and orange gives you a kind of sexy jack-o’-lantern look.”
“Ha.” I’m not sure why I’m blushing at being called a sexy jack-o’-lantern.
“I actually don’t know anything about cars,” he admits.
“You don’t say.”
“I’m decent with a boat engine, though. I kind of thought a car would be the same thing…”
“But it’s not?”
“Not even slightly.”
I smile. “Well, it was nice of you to offer to help anyway.”
“I couldn’t abandon a beautiful woman in distress,” he says, his smile wide, the crooked incisor winking at me. “Reba, I mean,” he adds.
“Of course.” I say, my own grin growing. “Well, if it’s any consolation toyou, I thought you played the part of mechanic well.”
“Yeah?”
“I bought it. You have all those tools.” Though as I gesture to the back of his truck, I realize it’s mostly scraps of wood and sawdust, not motor oil and spark plugs. A few fishing rods are laid across the top.
“I’m a carpenter,” he confirms. “Sorry Rusty and I couldn’t get it done for you.”
“Rusty?”
“My wrench. What—you think you’re the only one who names inanimate objects? My hammer is named Thor. For obvious reasons.”
A laugh bursts from me, one of the shrieky, genuine ones, and Tomato Guy smiles like he’s delighted.
“Unfortunately,” he continues, “and I think, shortsightedly, they’ve stopped making cars out of nails and wood. Otherwise, Rusty and I would have had you fixed up and ready to drive off to your Happily Ever After.”
I flinch.Happily Ever After.The easiness I’d felt with him drains out of me, replaced by a wary suspicion. Even here, where I’m supposed to be free of all the baggage that comes withLovedBy, it finds me. I should have known this guy knew who I was. That he was only helping me because he’s seen me on TV. I feel my smile warp from something real into something forced.
He straightens, and his eyebrows come together as he sees my change in expression. He leans toward me in concern. “Are you okay?” His arm reaches out, but he stops himself, flexing his hand and taking a step back. “Sorry. I know I smell like sweat and largemouth bass.”
It’s so sweet—and soweird—I can’t help the genuine grin that sneaks back onto my face. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe he didn’t mean to make aLovedByreference. Not everyone’s brain has been warped by pop culture the way mine has.
“No, it’s my fault. And you don’t smell bad. I mean, yeah, I can kind of smell the fish, but I actually like it when guys smell a little sweaty?” The words spill out. Tomato Guy tilts his head but doesn’t say anything. So I barrel on through. “I just find Happily Ever Afters kind of triggering.” I don’t know why I say it, but the confessions keep coming. “I’m not sure I believe in them.”
Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to have it all together, either, with his ten million tomatoes and total cluelessness about cars, and yet he seems completely unself-conscious about it. I wishI could be the same way. And that realization feels like more of a breakthrough than I’ve had in a year’s worth of therapy.
I’ve been plowing ahead, going on date after date trying to convince myself that Aaron was just a hiccup, a slight deviation on my road to True Love—as easy to jump-start back to life as this Jeep. It feels good to finally admit that I’m tired of “trusting the process.” That my broken engagement and pulverized heart can’t be glossed over with preventative Botox and carefully applied hair extensions.
His eyes narrow on my face with an appraising look. “I don’t either,” he admits. Something passes between us like a frisson. Not just the spark of attraction I sense we’re both feeling, but also understanding. I wonder what happened in this guy’s past to make him distrust happy endings too.
But then he cracks another smile. “Unicorns, though—thoseI believe in for sure. Big unicorn guy.”
