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2
LENORE
Ican’t explain why I feel so happy. I just lost my job, my car’s crapped out, and I can’t afford to pay my credit card bill when it’s due in two weeks.
And yet I feel unburdened. Worried but unburdened. Like a balloon that’s escaped from a kid’s hand at the fair.
Not-quite-a-stranger Matt and I ride in silence the last few blocks, and I forget to send SOS messages to my oblivious mother. It's a beautiful summer morning, and there’s the right amount of breeze to keep you from sweating if you’re outside for any length of time. . . and not hiking along the highway at top speed.
We pull into a parking lot with a small sign proclaiming the shop to be ‘Song Automotive.’ Underneath the hand-painted logo is a phone number and hours listed for each day of the week except Sunday. I notice that Mondays are half days, open only in the afternoon. It looks like the rest of the week, the shop opens at ten, so at least I haven’t taken him away from paying customers.
The building itself isn’t overly large, but it looks like two garage bays were added to the main part at some point. The siding color is just shy of matching perfectly so you know it wasn’t put on at the same time. Again, everything is suspiciously clean. Seriously, only dealerships with round-the-clock cleaning crews and salespeople on commission are this clean.
“You can come in if you want. Otherwise, it’ll just be a second if you’d rather wait here.”
“I’ll wait. I’ve done more than enough walking for one day.”
I won’t lie. What I really want is the chance to snoop around. There’s only so much you can covertly eyeball without being caught.
Matt nods and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves the keys in the ignition and the motor running. Is anyone really this naive? I could slide over the console and steal his truck quicker than my hopefully now banished mental demon can rip off a self-deprecating line. Matt the Mechanic doesn’t know me from an escaped felon on the run.
Maybe I am the mentally unstable one in our newly formed alliance. I could have been reading the situation wrong this whole time.
I watch him stride across the empty parking lot toward the door of what I now see is a parts store and office with a loose, lanky stride.
Shouldn't somebody else be here? They have an hour or so before they open, but aren’t there usually people around answering phones or something?
As soon as Matt clears the front door of the shop, I ease his glove box open.
A map of Wisconsin slides forward onto the drop-down door, and an outdated copy of one for Michigan is underneath it. I use my pinky finger to push both aside and find the damning evidence of. . . an owner’s manual for the truck. A certain 2010 Chevy Silverado that I’m currently sitting in.
Disappointing. I don't know why I feel compelled to dig up dirt about even-less-of-a-stranger Matt. Maybe it will make him feel more real, less like a dream my overused brain conjured up in desperation. Hello, white knight. Although riding in a truck instead of on a horse.
I slide everything back in the glove box and shut the drop-down door, making sure it's firmly latched so it won’t betray me by flopping open if we hit a bump in the road.
I eyeball the large windows of the front of the store and see no movement, so I continue my search. I flip down the passenger side visor and again find nothing suspicious. I push it back up in a huff and check the shop door while I go for the driver’s side visor.
I find a Chinese takeout menu folded in half, a business card with a phone number scribbled on it and no name, and a small envelope of business cards for Song Automotive. I almost drop the bundle when I see Matt listed as the owner, not just a mechanic who worked there like I’d assumed. I slip the whole bundle back under the little elastic band on the visor and secure it with the binder clip.
So, it seems Matt likes Chinese food, is obsessively clean, not just a mechanic but the owner of this establishment, and is too trusting of strange women he’s just met.
I flip the visor back up, and when there’s still no sign of him, I crane around and check the back seat for anything incriminating. Incriminating of what, I’m not sure, but I’ll know it when I see it.
The floor is clean—shocker—although you can tell it hasn’t been vacuumed as much as the front floor mats.
I lean further over, reaching for a sweatshirt that was tossed over the driver’s seat at some point. I push myself until I’m on my tippy toes, twisting around both of the front seats, and I still can barely reach it. My fingers just brush the fabric.
Curse being short. With a final heave, I will myself taller and nab it with the tips of my fingernails.
As I’m congratulating myself on my successful catch, I hear a thunk in the back of the truck.
Incriminating evidence! Something’s alive and moving back there. I slowly look up over the headrest and see Matt leaning against the side of the truck, watching me, along with a bright red fuel tank and funnel in the bed of the truck.
This time he is laughing, and it does incredible things to my heartbeat.
Get yourself under control, Lenore. What the hell is wrong with you?
