He rolls his eyes and flings open his door to climb out. I match him, slamming mine and rattling his mirror.
“Jesus, easy with that, okay?” he says, nostrils flaring open and his eyes wide and full of fire. I hear him mumble under his breath as he steps up on the side of his truck and reaches over the bed for my bag. I stand on the step on my side just so I can match his line of sight.
“If you hate me so much, why the hell did you come and get me? I could have found my way home!” I say, my knuckles white as my fists clench along the truck bed.
“Fuck,” Cody says, still under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear. I’m a little stunned by his brashness. He leans back, holding onto the edge of the truck bed and stretching his arms out while he looks up at the sky, almost like a kid on a merry-go-round. When he comes back in, he pounds one fist on the side of the truck. “Just because you said you can’t, doesn’t mean I can’t. I don’t just turn this shit off like that,” he says, pounding his flat hand to his chest—to his heart. Oh my God! “I don’t want to…I’m not ready to. That okay?”
I can see the plea in his eyes almost instantly, and I can also see the realization of his admission flash over him as he quickly grabs my bag and turns to head into the garage. Cody gave me more than he wanted to with those words. And they’ve just made the sharp cut of the diamond in my pocket more painful to deal with. But I’m glad he said them. At least…I think I am.
The music pumping out of one of the garage bays is loud, and Gabe jumps when we walk in behind him. He smiles at me quickly, though, and I’m grateful for his warm welcome. After my visit with Jessie before my trip, I was worried that the two of them might be a little angry with me. Of course, when they find out about the ring in my pocket, they still might be.
Cody dumps my bag on the floor in the corner and walks to the back of the garage. I see him rubbing his neck, the tension rolling off of him with every step. He raises his eyebrows at Gabe, a knowing glance that I know is a sign between the two of them. When Gabe shrugs back at him in return, I’m sure of their silent conversation—and I know it’s about me.
“Why are we here? Weren’t you supposed to take me home?” I sound snotty, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Cody walks by with a wrench and pushes me softly out of his way so he can slide a board under the front of the car wheeled up over the oil pans. “Jim’s home. I’m not taking you there. Trevor said he was fine with it. That okay with you, sweetheart?” he says, his frustration with me absolutely clear.
I glower at him in return, and turn to grab my bag and take out my drafting book to sit at the table. I’m pretty sure there won’t be a lot of conversation, and since I have no idea when I’m going to go home, I start a new set of drawings.
Maybe it’s because I’m so angry with Cody, or maybe it’s because I’m even angrier with Trevor—whatever the reason, after an hour and a half of sitting at the worktable, I’ve managed to drum up a vintage sketch of the shop. I haven’t felt inspiration like this since I started the home series inspired by my dad’s house. I’ve played up the 50s appeal, pulling out more neon, penciling in the bright greens and reds to pop off of the white building, adding shading structures and entry signs that say Jake’s. I’m biting my lip and working feverishly when I notice a shadow in my light.
“What do you think?” I ask.
I hear Cody swallow hard, but I don’t turn. I keep shading and coloring, while Cody stands behind me watching. I feel the stillness that starts to surround the two of us, both of our breaths held. I want to speak, say something—something that will make everything better. But every time I open my mouth, I’m stalled, and can’t think of the words. It takes him almost a full minute to answer, his voice cracking slightly.
“When I was a kid, that’s what this place looked like. I mean…it looked just like that,” Cody says.
He can’t see me, so I let the smile take over my scowl. For some reason, I’m happy when he’s happy. “If you want, you can keep them. Frame them or something…you know? For the garage,” I say, instantly embarrassed by my suggestion, like my work is worthy of art. I’m so incredibly lame.
I feel his hand slide over my shoulder, and his fingers squeeze lightly before his face leans in, close to my neck. “Thank you,” he whispers. I bite my tongue, my mind working several moves ahead, and every which way I go, he’s there at the end. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, still facing away from him, when he suddenly leaves my shoulder feeling cold, his body no longer close.