Page 30 of Friends Don't Kiss

“Eh, there’s the Corvette with the faulty exhaust pipe. Wanna take that?” he asks me.

Hell yeah, I want to work on that. Who wouldn’t? We have a reputation for our work on vintage cars, but we don’t get to work on a 1966 Stingray that often, if ever. “You should take it,” I say. Orson is more experienced than me in that area.

He tilts his head and ticks his tongue. “Might not have time to finish it. And you could use the practice.”

All good points. “Okay.” The client dropped her last night, so I down my coffee to get right to work. Anything to keep my mind off Kiara. “I’ll call if I need you,” I say before stepping into the bay. Orson follows me to get started on a couple of oil changes and filter replacements.

I slide under the car and try to shut off the outside world to focus on the task at hand. The old exhaust is showing lots of rust spots, the bolts fused to the connections—mainly the exhaust manifold and the flanges. I grab the penetrating oil and hit each connection. Then I take my ratchet and get to work.

We work in relative silence for the next hour or so, until the rest of my crew shows up. First Linwood, the other old timer who, like Orson, came with the shop. Then Patrick, the tire specialist I hired a couple of years ago. Then, finally, two apprentices, the names of which I may not bother to remember if they keep showing up late every day.

I roll out from under the Corvette to get them squared away with their tasks for the day, then focus back on my work rather than obsess over how I seem to fuck up with women, not understand them one way or another.

This work I created for myself, it’s good. Familiar. Controllable. Down to the smell of grease, the whooshing of a hydraulic pumping up in the next bay, the clanking of a dropped tool, the occasional swearing. It’s something I know and understand and control.

Kiara said, “Pretend none of this ever happened”, and this is the only way I can try and do that. Focusing on the stuff I understand. The stuff that makes me feel good. Fixing cars. Taking something that’s not working and making it work. This is my world.

I fix things.

As far as fixing relationships, different story.

My ex, Valerie, used to insist she didn’t dislike the smell of grease on me when I came home at night and tried to scrub off the nastiness in the shower. She said it gave me an edge. She had fun naming my garage, Harper’s Body Works, even designed a logo for it. It only took me the few months we lived together to understand she got off on being with a guy from what she considered to be the wrong side of the tracks. Someone who worked getting his hands dirty.

I was a little slow on the uptake, but to be honest when she packed her bags it didn’t hurt. Even when she said, “you’re gonna miss me,” and for a little while I sort of did. I missed having company. I didn’t really missher.

When Kiara said, “Can we pretend none of this ever happened?” it hurt like hell. Like I’d done something disgusting to her. I can’t even blame her. Or be angry at her. I wasn’t smooth at all. I was blunt, and Kiara is anything but blunt.

Not to draw comparisons, but with Valerie, it went very differently. Her parents owned a vacation home around here. We hooked up—at my place, obviously. Repeatedly.

Took me three months to realize her parents had sold their house. At the time, I was working super hard building up the garage with not enough staff, so I think I get a pass for not figuring that out sooner.

That wasn’t why we broke up. She wanted me to move with her “out West”, where she was convinced her artistic talent would be better rewarded, and so would my skills in repairing vintage cars.

That’s when I understood she thought we were together. So I suppose it was a breakup for her. Not for me. For me, it was just the end of a long hookup that was beginning to wear off, if I’m honest.

With Kiara, it’s entirely different. Opposite. I want to build something with her, and the error I made was to not give it enough time and thought. I took for granted that she was of the same mindset. Mistake.

I wiggle the old exhaust pipe free from its hangers, surprised, like always, by the weight of it. I roll out from under the car, ready for a quick coffee before I tackle attaching the new exhaust. This is going to be tricky, what with the Stingray having a fiberglass body, and this model having a side-exit exhaust.

Exactly what I need to keep my mind off Kiara.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Orson calls out. Happiness seeps into his rocky voice. It can only mean one thing.

“Hey, guys! Got your favorites today—lemon, poppy seed, and chocolate.” Just the sound of her voice makes me all soft. I roll from under the Corvette and wipe my hands.

“You didn’t need to do that!” Orson exclaims. “We got that little beauty here.”

I step into the reception area right in time to see Kiara’s gaze on her Christmas dessert, flinching for half a second. “Oh! That was a little surprise for you guys,” she says, her voice cheery. “I know you’re partial to your cupcakes. But someone’s gonna have to go destroy that little beauty. Colton, you should do the honors,” she says, turning to me, looking at me as if nothing had happened at all last night. Is it really that easy for her?

“Uh—I don’t know. It’s really pretty,” I say. “I’d hate to break up something that looks so good.”

She shrugs. “Nothing lasts forever.” She’s still pissed at me, that’s for sure.So much for pretending nothing happened.Our little word-sparring weighs heavy on my chest; I’m not going down this route with her, so I don’t answer. Producing a knife, she stabs through the tree, detaching the top and handing it to me. “The star goes to Colton though, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her voice breaks a little in a way only I can perceive.

And the way she looks at me right now? Her words in front of the guys?

I might have heard her right last night, but I read her wrong. She’s more complex than I thought, and that’s on me.

I said I’d make her mine, and dammit, one way or another—I will.

---