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OLIVIA
Iturn onto my street as I walk home from a short day of classes. I’m looking forward to brewing myself a hot cup of tea when I get one and jumping back into the book I’m reading. It’s another romance book that Summer recommended.
I’m on a full-fledged romance kick. I don’t know why it took me so long to get into these books. I’m strongly considering upgrading from reading on my phone to buying a real Kindle.
But after taking a couple steps down my block, an unexpected sight makes my brows draw together and sends a suspicious, uneasy feeling spiraling in my stomach.
My car’s sitting where it’s been since the day I got it towed, right at the curb in front of our house.
But its hood is open, and parked in front of it is a utility van. A hand reaches from behind the hood, gripping the top of it and pushing it down. A stocky man wearing a work jacket stands at the front of my car, brushing his hands against the front of his dark blue khaki pants.
Suspicion and concern gnaw at me as I hurry my steps towards him.
“Excuse me,” I call. “What are you doing?”
“Just finishing up the job,” he answers, gathering tools lying on the pavement in front of my car.
“But this is my car. I didn’t order any job,” I protest. I’m worried that somehow wires got crossed. I ordered the tow truck from an auto repair place, but I didn’t order any repairs, because I can’t afford them. Did they somehow automatically schedule a repair appointment? If they did, there’s no way I’m paying.
“Someone did,” the man shrugs. “Paid for it, too. Paid extra for a house call so the car wouldn’t need to be brought into the shop. Everything’s in order now, car shouldn’t be giving you any more trouble.”
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and holds out my own car keys to me. “Here you go,” he says.
My jaw goes slack. “How did you get these?”
“Your boyfriend gave them to me,” he says. “Maybe he ordered these repairs as a surprise. Well, surprise.”
“Boyfriend?” My brow furrows. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The mechanic grins and lets out an amused chuckle. “Maybe tell him that.”
I hold out my hand and let him drop my keys onto it. He waves goodbye as he hauls his tool tote into the utility van and drives off. Once the initial surprise starts to wash away, it becomes clear who that him must be.
I pull out my phone and send a text. To Tuck.
What did you do?
The bubbles indicating that he’s typing bounce for a while. When the message finally comes through, I expect a full explanation, but …
Tuck
What did I do today? A bunch of things. Took a shower. Argued with Hudson about whether UFOs are real. Ate a cheeseburger for lunch. Made fun of Sebastian for watching a documentary about the history of philosophy in the living room. Leg day at the gym. Argued with Hudson about whether time travel is possible. Totally is, by the way. Do you want to hear more about the shower?
My lips remain a tight, flat line on my face, my eyebrows tugging together with annoyance as I read his message. With a twitch of my nose, I call him.
“Hey,” he answers, his voice bright and cheery. “I take it you do want to hear more about the shower? Or maybe more about leg day. I worked my glutes hard today, so they’re firm and round and …”
“This isn’t funny, Tuck,” I cut him off. My voice is cold and harsh.
He’s silent for a beat. “Wait. Are you mad?” He sounds perplexed.
“Yes, I’m mad.”
“About the car?” Confusion is still obvious in his voice.
“Yes, Tuck. About the car.”
There’s another beat of silence, followed by a couple strained sounds where he tries to say something, but clearly has trouble finding the words.
