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But instead I get to work on an old Honda Civic that is as good as scrap and seethe in silence. I attack the faulty engine with a vengeance, checking it thoroughly, wrenching out cables and reading the gauges.
A bit too forcefully, maybe. After I stab myself in the hand for the second time with the screwdriver, Evan hauls me out from under the car and straight to the coffee machine as I curse a blue streak.
He pulls out a first aid kit from a corner and slaps a Band-Aid on my lacerated hand. “Hope your tetanus shots are up to date.”
“Fuck you,” I grumble, flexing my hand and fishing in my pocket for loose change to buy some goddamn coffee.
“Someone’s grumpy.”
“Now you sound like my mom.”
He laughs, leaning against the coffee machine.
And I don’t have enough coins. Figures.
He drops a coin into the slot and grins. “There you go.”
“Why the fuck are you so happy?”
“To piss you off.”
“Asshole.” But I shake my head.
“Someone else holds that title around here. Speaking of whom…” He straightens and loses the grin. “Why were you looking for Ross?”
Taking a sip of my scalding, bitter coffee, I debate whether to tell Evan. I trust him, as much as you can trust someone you’ve only known for a couple of weeks.
“There’s something I wanna ask him,” I say.
“Not gonna punch the living daylights out of him?” Evan asks casually.
I make myself stay perfectly still. “Depends. Why?”
“He’s been shooting daggers at you since the day you confronted him over Octavia. And I thought he might be worse than usual, since Octavia got herself a boyfriend.”
For some reason, my first thought is that
he’s talking about me.
Then I think, Jesus F. Christ, Matt. Are you fucking nuts?
And then what he said hits me in the gut.
“What boyfriend?” I ask, the word a weird shape in my mouth.
“This young guy. Her neighbor, I guess. Adam something or other. They often go for ice cream together in the evening.”
Images of Octavia with another guy unfold in my brain’s eye, playing like a movie—his arms around her, his mouth on her, his body moving between her legs.
Red mists my vision.
Fucking shit.
I chuck the plastic cup at the wall where it leaves a dark smear, and stalk back into the garage.
“Matt. Jesus.” Evan huffs, starting after me. “What now?”
“Shut up,” I say and go back to pull the engine of the Honda apart until my hands bleed and my mind stops writhing like a wounded animal.
