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“When was the last time you had her serviced?” Dean asks, holding his hand out for the keys.
“I bought her two days ago,” I reply as I pass them over.
His head turns toward me. “You bought a vintage Kombi two days ago?”
“She was basically asking me to,” I explain.
“Cars don’t ask people to buy them,” he says flatly.
“This one did,” I insist.
G nods beside me. “She’s very persuasive.”
Dean stares at both of us for a second before pointing toward the van.
“I’m going to take a look,” he tells us.
He climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the key. The engine catches but immediately begins coughing and sputtering.
A frown forms between his brows.
“That noise,” I say, pointing unnecessarily. “That’s the bad noise.”
“Helpful,” he replies dryly.
“I’m doing my best.”
Dean turns off the ignition and moves around to the rear of the van. After opening the engine compartment, he leans in for a closer look. I peer over his shoulder as though I have the slightest clue what any of it means.
“Can you fix her?” I ask.
“I don’t know for sure without getting her back to the shop,” Dean explains.
He reaches into the engine compartment and checks something before wiping his fingers on a rag.
“Could be the carburetor,” he continues. “If it’s dirty or the adjustment is off, she won’t be getting the right mixture of fuel and air.”
I stare blankly at him.
Dean glances at my face. “She might need a clean.”
“That part I understood,” I tell him.
His mouth twitches. “I brought the trailer. I can take her back to Hartwell Motor Co. and have a proper look.”
I release a heavy sigh.
Of course this happens now. Just as everything starts feeling peachy and clean, the universe reminds me that peace comes with a fucking service fee.
“Your shop?” I ask.
“Bottom of Main Street,” Dean answers. “We’re open until two on Saturdays.”
“Okay.” I look toward my poor van. “That would be great. Thank you.”
Dean nods before walking back toward the trailer.
G catches my eye the second he turns away. A knowing smirk spreads across her face.
