AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ChapterTwo
SPENCER
Even with all the garage doors cranked open, Frank’s auto shop feels hotter than Venus, which is—for the record—our solar system’s warmest planet. I hand over Mrs. Lockhart’s keys, and of course, my brother doesn’t thank me. He just grunts and drags me past a row of cars jacked halfway to the ceiling. He wants to show me what he’s gotten done on his latest project. That’s how Frank refers to the special cars he’s working on.
Projects.
To me, a project involves something that has a clear start and end date, but Frank’s been tinkering with this ’65 Mustang for who knows how long now. He calls itthe baby, and unlike the other cars,the babyisn’t hoisted in the air. It’s on the ground, hood propped open. Frank’s got me positioned at the front, with a direct view out of the garage.
I’ll admit the Mustang is gorgeous. Way more impressive than the gray sedan I’ve been driving around for years. Of course, my car isn’t a work in progress. It’s perfectly functional and trustworthy. I’ve put over 200,000 miles on the thing, but I get regular tune-ups, and I detail every inch of it monthly. Still, a part of me wouldn’t mind driving something flashier.
I could use a little more flash.
“See that transmission there?” Frank asks. “Under the engine?” He’s using a pen light to point at something that, to me, could be any car part.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“It’s brand new,” he says, in a tone I’d liken to reverence. When he starts talking about the installation, my vision shifts to just beyond his shoulder, across the way, over to the car wash.
Then I start thinking about the last thing I heard before climbing into Mrs. Lockhart’s Volvo.
Tess shouted something like,What? No!
This isn’t shocking. Tess McCoy is often loud about things. Or about everything. Always. And as much as I appreciate predictable patterns, her volume can get frustrating. She’s got this tremendous—TREMENDOUS—energy, always whirling around like some kind of tornado. And she gets especially whirly when whirling isn’t called for.
Like in the library for example.
Also her hair is unnecessarily wild. She’s got these long red curls that drape over her shoulders. Sometimes she wrestles them into a ponytail, but loose pieces always fall out. And while I admit the effect can be pretty—in a casual kind of way—I prefer to control my style. That’s why I’ve used a blow dryer and gel since the day Lucy Devlin first complimented my hair.
Not that my carefully managed grooming ever mattered. It was clear from the get-go she was never going to look at me twice.
Women rarely look at me twice.
So I did some soul-searching. Took a personal inventory and made a list. Here’s what I concluded: I’m intelligent and educated. My respectable, full-time job comes with a decent, steady income. The features of my face are even. One might call my appearance aggressively symmetrical—which, theoretically, makes me classically attractive. I’ve got dark eyes. Thick arching brows. I’ve got a chin dimple, for Pete’s sake.
Aren’t chin dimples supposed to be irresistible?
Anyway.
Those are my pros.
As for the cons… well. I made a second list.
It’spossibleI’m a tad on the rigid side. Like when it comes to making lists. And my lifestyle choices aren’t known for flexibility. Perhaps I’m a big fan of order. But that also means I’m offering a woman someone who’s consistent. Clean. Neat. Organized.
I mean, come on. Who doesn’t appreciate an organized closet? My pants are color-coordinated and pressed. I iron my shirts with starch. When I checked, I couldn’t find a single crease on any sleeve. That’s when I realized I wasn’t filling out my shirts the way some men do. So about twelve months ago, I started lifting weights, and I’ve made a bit of progress. A decent amount, actually.
Thanks for noticing.
I still can’t wrestle giant dumbbells like Mac McCoy and Nash Hendrix—the lumberjack twins—but I’ve adopted a solid routine. Every morning, before the sun rises, I go to the Springfield Fitness Center, where I complete a strict weight-lifting regimen and chart my daily statistics. After lifting weights (and charting my stats) I run on the treadmill or around town, faithfully tracking my pace and my distance. It’s a lot of fun.
Well, a medium amount.
More fun than pretending I care what’s under the hood of Frank’s baby.
“And do you see that?” he asks.
“Yeah. Yeah.” I think he’s excited about the exhaust now. So I risk another glance over at the car wash. Tess is still talking to Mrs. Lockhart, waving her hands around, looking agitated.
