Page 39 of Just a Little Crush
Iparkonthestreet outside Dad’s garage. Or my brother’s garage, I should say. While I followed in our uncle’s footsteps, Jack followed in Dad’s and took over the family business. When his days aren’t full with services and repairs for everyone in town, he restores classic cars for customers with more money than sense.
I dropped Bec at home on the way here, convinced her it wasn’t safe to stand and there was nowhere to sit. Truthfully, I just don’t want her to be here for this. Her toys were a welcome distraction on the drive, I enjoy the weight of them in my pocket. I could have left them with her, but the thought of her getting off without me is too much. Maybe I’ll surprise her with it later. I like the idea of that.
Inside I find my brother with his head under the bonnet of a Range Rover, fiddling with god knows what.
“How’s the wife?” Jack laughs. He sets down his tools and wipes his hands on an oily rag.
“What are you talking about?”
“Heard you shacked up with Rebecca Charlton. Figured if things were moving that fast you might be married by now. You knocked her up yet?”
“I have notshacked upwith Bec, she’s staying with me while she recovers from her accident. An accident that almost killed her, I might add. Show some fucking respect.”
“I’m just messing with you, bro. I’m glad she’s got someone looking out for her.”
A grunt is all he’s getting. Though he’s a couple of years younger than me, Jack’s always had a knack for winding me up. I’m not taking the bait today.
“Where’s her car?” I ask, looking around the garage.
“Not here,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Never came in.”
“Why not?” I repeat. I’m getting more pissed off by the second.
“You know insurance companies only send me easy repairs. Hers must be in a pretty bad way.”
“It is. I need you to fix it.” I push past him and through to the back room that doubles up as an office and a kitchen. We’ve made a lot of memories in this little wood panelled space. Me and Jack messing about with toy cars, pissing Dad off with our play fighting. When we were a bit older and Dad let us get to work on fixing a car of our own, we’d be here late nights and all weekend tinkering away.
A framed, yellowing photo of us and Dad still hangs on the wall, one of us on each shoulder under the old Rennie’s Motors sign.
Jack comes in behind me and flicks the kettle on. I hover, not feeling dickish enough to sit in the chair behind his desk. Dad always made it clear that the boss and the boss only got that spot.
“How bad is it?” he asks.
“Roof is crushed, doors are all bent out of shape. Needs new windows. Engine might be OK though, I’m not sure.”
“Jesus Ali. I’m a mechanic, not a miracle worker.”
“That car is everything to her, Jack. You should have seen her in the hospital, it was the first thing she asked about. I need to fix this for her.”
“I don’t know if I can even get parts that old. Some things can’t be fixed, mate. Sometimes you just need to get a new car and move on.”
“That’s not fucking good enough,” I snap.
Jack sighs, but he knows better than to argue with me. “Where is it now?”
“I don’t fucking know,” I shout. “I thought it was here.”
“Listen, you may be the bigger and uglier brother, but stop taking your shit out on me. I’m trying to help you.”
Jack returns to his work while I get on the phone to the fire station, then the scrap yard, and finally her insurer. I clean the office windows while I navigate their stupid automated system and when I finally get through to a real person he refuses to speak to me because I’m“not the owner of the vehicle in question”. I call him a useless prick and stab at my phone to hang up.
Behind me, Jack throws his tools on the workbench. “Seriously, Ali, what’s going on with you?”
“Bec. Bec’s what’s going on with me,” I yell, my last nerve shredded. “I’m trying to sort all this crap out and look after her and—“ I can’t tell him this stuff. Can’t tell him she’s all I think about. Can’t tell him she’s under my skin, and in my bed, and I’m taking way too many liberties with her when she’s in no position to argue. I’m supposed to be helping her, for God’s sake, not putting my hands on her every chance I get. And no, the knowledge that she wants it too does not make any of this any easier. It’s like everything I thought I knew is unravelling before my eyes.
