Trevor winks at them, while he’s talking, and they giggle, like most girls do when he’s giving them his sales pitch. I know it will work, though, and it does as the driveway is empty within a half an hour.
I was relieved that Trevor fell asleep quickly after we finally settled in for the night. For some reason, Cody’s party had him furious. I understood being upset about Cody’s constant disrespect for his father, but I didn’t think throwing a party at an otherwise empty house was that big of a deal. I played along, though, nodding and agreeing through his 20 minutes of ranting, hating Cody for my own reasons. It was an easier way to end the night. The romance that had been brewing earlier was extinguished the second Cody tried to buy me for twenty bucks.
But now, laying here next to Trevor—hearing nothing but his faint breathing and the crickets outside—I’m left replaying my confrontation with Cody over and over. Each time I walk through the scene, I’m stronger, stopping him before he can get to me. The longer I think about it, the angrier I get, and finally I’m on my feet, pacing in front of the window.
I see the light on in the garage, the rest of the carriage house dark, and the mess left behind strewn along the front yard and driveway. I reach for my jeans and slip them on along with one of Trevor’s sweaters I find lying on the floor. I grab the crumpled up twenty from my desk, along with a Sharpie, and slip quietly out our door.
I’m almost to the open front of the garage when I hear the rattling of tools and see a bolt roll along the floor. My face goes flush, and I’m suddenly sweating, the bravery I was filled with moments ago running away to hide. I think I can hold my breath, quietly step backward out of the light, and round the corner of the garage, when I come face-to-face with a stranger. I scream the second I see him, and he leaps against the car parked in the garage, clutching his chest.
“What the f**k?” his eyes are wide, and he’s panting. “Shit! You scared me!”
I’m still standing there speechless, staring at a tall man with a shaved head and a bare chest covered in tattoos. I look down and notice his shirt is tucked in and hanging from the waistband of his jeans. His black work boots are scuffed with oil stains, and his jeans are torn at the knees and just as covered in oil and dirt. I shake my head side-to-side as I notice his hands moving to his shirt, and he begins wiping them clean. Finally, he extends his hand, and out of habit I reach for it, my mouth still open and in shock.
“I’m Gabe. I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. You lookin’ for Cody?” he’s staring at me, his brow low, like he’s trying to figure me out. My heart is still thumping against my ribs, making it hard to hear, and even harder to focus. I just nod slowly in answer to Gabe’s question.
“He’s gone. Asshat is in no condition to drive, but he didn’t go far. He’s just up at the garage,” Gabe says. His answer seems to jolt me a little, like a reset button, and I finally take in a breath. I start to look around—trying to understand what Gabe means about the garage. Isn’t this the garage? Jesus, how many garages do the Appleton’s have? Gabe must sense my confusion, because he starts to laugh.
“Jake’s garage…his shop. You been there?” he asks, bending down to pick up the wrench and bolt he’d been coming for when he scared me. I just nod no in response.
“Ah, well, it ain’t hard to find. It’s just down the road about six or seven miles, right by the diner,” Gabe says. I smile, shoving my hands in my pockets, and turn to leave, but Gabe stops me. “I’d leave him be tonight, though. Just…if you want my opinion.”
I turn back to face him and shrug. “Why’s that?” I say, my throat dry, and my voice soft and shy.
Gabe walks back to a large tool chest behind the car. I notice the rust and dents along its side and trace it with my hand. It’s an old car, maybe 1970s, but I can tell with a little love it could be something. Gabe notices my attention to it and comes over to stand next to me, rubbing his hand along the same rough paint. “She’s a beauty…Codes should have her in shape in about a month. You’ll have to come back and see her then,” he says.
“Is it his?” I ask, my eyes now roaming to the interior and the dashboard, both just as beat up as the outside.
Gabe starts to laugh and then tosses his now soiled shirt in a pile on the garage floor. “Hell no. Codes can’t afford something like this. It’s a job. He’s fixing it up for some guy in Cleveland,” he says, leaning his back against the driver’s side and pulling out a cigarette. He looks up at me and holds it out, offering, but I just shake my head and scrunch my face. “Not a smoker, huh?”