Page 29 of Friends Don't Kiss

Another mistake.

Will our friendship ever recover from what I did? Me forcing myself as her fake boyfriend was bad enough—not to mention the kiss. But this?

See, this is why people should take better care of their cars. None of this would have happened if Kiara’d let me do regular checkups of her Corolla. Changed what needed to be changed before she was stranded. The Corolla would have started without a hiccup, she’d have gone alone to Eloise’s birthday party, she’d have survived it just fine without my intervention, and we’d still be friends—no awkwardness.

But no. She pretends she can’t afford the regular maintenance, or doesn’t want me to work for free, and look where we are now.

I stare at her dessert, feeling guilty I didn’t memorize its name. I thought we were going to have a long evening of kissing and cuddling, and more if she was up for it, and we’d get to this little work of art later at night, maybe spoon-feeding each other. She’d ask me what I thought of it, and of course I’d be wowed because everything Kiara makes is perfection, but she’d push and push until I came up with something that could use improvement, and she’d take notes on her phone and finally be content.

It was going to be perfect.

Instead, the little edible Christmas tree sits on my countertop untouched, like a silent reproach—the memory of what should have been. I place it in the fridge, then plop on the couch with the plan to play video games until Kiara comes back (you never know) or I fall asleep.

Neither happens. Once 4:00 a.m. comes around I get into the shower in hopes of washing away last night’s bitter taste, then get ready for work.

Opening the fridge to take a slug of orange juice, I’m jolted by Kiara’s dessert staring at me. I’m not coming back to this reminder tonight, so I take it with me to the garage.

The guys will be happy.

I pull into Harper’s Body Works at five, the moon still bright, early workers driving by me on the main road in and out of Emerald Creek.

Merritt, who owned the garage before me and taught me pretty much everything I know, used to say that we mechanics provide one of the most essential services to this world. Sure, a couple professions—he called them trades— were more important. Like doctors and teachers. But try getting to the doctor’s or to school by foot or on a horse. Doable? Sure. Just a helluva pain in the neck.

We’re the lubricant that keeps the cogs of society turning, and Merritt taught me to take pride in my work here for my community. Again, according to Merritt, there’s a reason beyond mere convenience that we’re located a mile and a half outside the center of town, before the first houses.

We’re the first and last stop people make going in and out of their hometown. Filling up their gas tanks, checking their tires, their levels of fluids. Really, they’re checking in with themselves as they go about their lives.

I like to think of us as the beacon on these first shift workers’ route.

The light is on in the reception area and in the bays, and fresh snow tracks lead to the back of the garage, where my staff and I park our cars. My lead mechanic Orson’s truck is there, ticking softly off.

“Hey, boss,” Orson greets me as I step into the reception area. He glances up from the computer, steaming coffee mug in hand. “Just made a fresh batch. Ooh, what’s that you got?” he says, looking at the dessert.

I grunt, “Kiara made this.”

“Inn’t she precious, always spoiling us. How come she’s not coming by today?”

I shrug. Kiara’s been bringing muffins every Monday morning “because it’s the start of the week” and cupcakes every Wednesday “because it’s hump day.” She’s become like most people in Emerald Creek—in everyone’s business in the kindest sort of way. The way that made the garden club offer to add window boxes and planters to the garage “to cheer up the entrance of Emerald Creek” the moment Merritt sold the business to me. He and his wife took to the RV life, and it was clear I didn’t have a green thumb.

“She wasn’t sure she could make it,” I answer. Maybe it’s a lie, and maybe it isn’t. I guess I’ll find out.

“Everythin’ okay?” Orson asks. Kiara never misses one of her self-appointed deliveries.

“Uh, sure. Far’s I know.”

“That’s some fancy shmancy thing she made,” he says. “Inn’t she something?”

I pour coffee in my cup, forcing myself to act normal, and overall be a good boss. It’s not my fault I made a shit decision that’s making me cranky. “You’re here early,” I say to make conversation without talking about Kiara. “Your old lady finally kick you out?”

His body shakes with soft laughter. Orson is living his fifties with a “fuck it” philosophy that’s resulted in an ever-growing beer belly, high cholesterol, and a couple of heart scares. But he and his wife of thirty years are still madly in love, and she’s entirely devoted to him and their family.

“Nah, she wants us to go pick the grandkids from daycare and take them for pictures with Santa. Figured I’d get an early start and scoot outta here by one.”

“Sure! What do we got today?” I ask, pointing at the computer where today’s appointments are listed.

“Parker’s beamer. Regular maintenance.”

I grunt. Owen Parker is not my favorite person. “What else?”

---