Okay, seriously? Even when he lived here, Trevor never actually handled any dipstick beside his own. He knows next to nothing about cars.
Sawyer, perhaps too smart to stick around and be an audience for Trevor’s display of manliness, says, “Nice to meet you, Trevor. Jonah, come on—time to go.” He heads off toward his house, Jonah trailing.
“He seems like a nice enough guy,” Trevor says.
Niceis completely the wrong word. Real is the word I’d use. Or sure, like sure-footed, sure of himself.
Big. Strong. Competent.
Very attractive from the rear view.
Very.
But not nice.
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. And then, because I suddenly feel generous, “Don’t worry about the oil and tire pressure—I got it.”
I can always just google the shit out of it. Or ask Sawyer for help.
I smile—actually smile—at Trevor, who looks taken aback. Which makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve felt like myself around him.
Not a bad feeling.
Not a bad feeling at all.
“Madden, run and change into something that’s not muddy. And not sweatpants. Jeans and a T-shirt.”
Madden runs upstairs.
“Don’t let him drink too much soda,” I tell Trevor, and leave him standing on the front stoop, waiting for Madden.