Page 31 of For The Record

I nod like I know what he means. The truth is, I didn’t even know cars had an air filter.

“So…” He stares down at his hands for a moment, which are now grease-stained. “It should be an easy fix. We can take it to my dad’s shop.”

I hand him a wad of napkins. “Sure… Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

And that’s how I find myself half an hour later, sitting in Ricardo Aguilar’s auto body shop, stashing the ice cream in a mini-fridge next to a six-pack of beers. Faint hip-hop beats echo through the garage, Spanish words rapped over the bass at rapid-fire speed. The faint smell of engine oil and cigarette smoke fills the garage.

I cross one leg over the other, resting my elbow on my knee as Leo, with his sleeves still rolled up, stares down the mechanic with an eagle eye. Or, a stare intense enough to shoot laser beams at the poor guy working on my car.

I’m sitting across from Leo’s dad, an affable man in his early sixties, with greying hair and tan skin crisscrossed with laugh lines. Since he found out about my tenuous connection to his son—or maybe made an assumption about our relationship—he’s been regaling me with stories of Leo’s childhood.

“When Leo was thirteen,” Ricardo begins, and I watch the back of Leo’s head to see if he’s paying attention to our conversation, “he told me he wanted to be a clown.”

I smile. Leo has yet to tell me the full story behind his side hustle of terrifying, or, ahem,amusingchildren. Perhaps, I’ll finally hear it straight from the source. “And what did you guys say to him?”

“Well, Helena, his mother told him that if he wanted to perform tricks for food, he should have been born a dog.”

Laughter bubbles out of me like a shaken-up soda can. “And you, Mr. Aguilar?”

“Oh, Ricardo is fine.” He waves a hand. “I told him to finish middle school and see if he felt the same way.”

“He must have, if he did birthday parties,” I say.

“Oh, that was when Raina was born. She hated clowns. Started crying every time she saw one.”

The image of a teenage Leo pranking his baby sister doesn’t sit well with me, but neither does it seem realistic.

I must wear my confusion on my face because Ricardo continues. “So, he tried to show her that clowns weren’t so scary after all. I think you would call it, what, shock therapy?”

“Exposure therapy,” I say.

“Yes, that. I have to say, it worked. That little girl went from hating clowns to loving them.” He laughs, slapping his knee. “Even got my son to become a birthday party clown for free.”

I try to picture Leo in full clown paraphernalia, making balloon animals and juggling pins. The image fails to materialize.

Ricardo turns to his son. “You done yet?”

“We need to order in an air filter,” Leo says with a frown. “It should be here by the day after tomorrow. I can give you a ride home, Skye.”

I don’t know if I should be worried about my car, or excited about spending more time with him. Still, I get up, brushing off my shorts. “Thanks for entertaining me, Ricardo.”

“Any time. Leo should bring you over for dinner one of those days.”

“I’d love to. How much do I owe you?” I fish out my wallet, already anticipating a hefty sum and telling myself that my car troubles, not the prospect of officially meeting Leo’s parents, are causing my insides to into a Cirque du Soleil-style contortionist pose.

“On the house,” Ricardo says.

Just then, Leo says, “I’ve already put it on my card. Family discount.”

I check my watch. Almost seven. I have neither the time nor the energy to fight him for the bill, especially when the bump next to my hairline is throbbing, so I just say, “I’ll consider it payment for hitting me with a door.”

Ricardo looks stunned, as though he’s the one who’s been smacked in the face. Then his olive skin reddens, the lines by his mouth and brown eyes deepening. “Didn’t I raise you better?”

He looks like he’s about to pick up Leo by the scruff of his neck like he’s a misbehaving puppy, even though Leo has two inches on his stepfather.

“It was an accident,” I say quickly, hoping that my foot-in-mouth incident doesn’t ruin the moment entirely. “A complete and utter accident.”

My shoulders slump in relief as I see Ricardo reach out to ruffle Leo’s hair. The two exchange words in Spanish before Ricardo says his goodbyes and goes into the back room that I assume is his office. Leo crosses the small space of the garage and passes me my keys. A small smudge of grease is on my white leather key chain, but part of me wants to keep it, as though it’s a souvenir of our time together. And why wouldn’t I think about it like it will end, if not soon, then eventually? We’re essentially each other’s rebound.

---