“Sweet merciful heavens,” he says solemnly, in a terrible imitation of me, and I bite his shoulder. He laughs again, and the sound of it, big and unguarded, might be my favorite thing I've ever heard.
I lie wrapped in his arms in the quiet of the night, his heartbeat thudding in my ear, one huge hand tracing lazy circles on my body.
“Who’s this?” My hand rests on the tattoo on his upper arm. “Do I need to be jealous of… Rosa?”
His laugh rumbles out. “It’s my Mamá’s name.”
“Oh. Good. And what about you? Or do I just call you Wrench forever?”
“If you like… my name is Rafael. My family call me Rafa.”
“Like the angel? It’s a wonderful name.”
“I’m no angel, gorgeous…” he kisses me again.
This is temporary, says the old scared voice inside me. Just until it's safe. Don't get used to it, Lila.
His lips press to my hair. His arm tightens, sure even in half-sleep, and for the first time in years, that old voice sounds exactly like what it is.
A liar.
Chapter Eight
WRENCH
I wake up in a bed with cherry-print curtains, a warm, beautiful, naked woman on my chest, and no regrets.
Lila sleeps sprawled out and trusting, one leg thrown over mine, hair everywhere, last night's lipstick gone. I lie still for a long while and let her sleep. From what I know of her life, sleep like this took years to earn.
My arm's dead by the time she stirs. It’s worth it.
“Morning.” Her voice is husky. She lifts her head, takes in me and the disheveled bed, and her cheeks go pink. “Thank you for letting me sleep. I can’t believe that happened.”
“Twice.”
“Wrench.”
“Can make it three if you like…”
She smiles. “I need to get ready for work.” I kiss her palm and get up to make breakfast while she takes a shower.
She comes out as the eggs set, wearing a towel and hops onto the stool by the counter to watch me cook, bare legs swinging, and steals bacon from the plate.
“You cook, you dance, you fix cars.” She bites the bacon. “You make great bacon. What's wrong with you?”
“Some say I talk too much.”
She laughs and shakes her head.
“This table's too small,” I hear myself say, plating the eggs. “You'll want a bigger one. Rosie's only getting taller, and the sewing machine deserves its own spot.” I set her plate down. “My place has a yard. Two blocks closer to the school than yours.”
Her voice is careful. “Wrench. It's been one night.”
“Yes.” She's holding her fork without eating, and I should reverse out of this, but I don’t. “I'm not taking it back, Lila. You want me to slow down, I'll slow all the way down. But I meant what I said.”
“Eat your eggs,” she says finally, which is not a no.
I spend the day at the shop with Lila’s starter in a hundred pieces and my head full of her.
