Page 11 of Stuck With You
She backs out of the spot. “I’m not sure. It seems to occur when I’m slowing to turn or accelerating from a stop.”
She stops before exiting the parking lot.
“How long ago did you first notice it?”
She turns right. “A few weeks ago, maybe, but it’s becoming more frequent.”
I point. “Take a right here, and two blocks down we’ll try a couple of things.”
“Yes, sir.” She flexes her hands on the steering wheel, and my gaze skirts over the space where no ring resides.
I want to jab my eyes out for unconsciously noticing, but I grunt instead.
“Forgive me, I’m having anxiety-provoking flashbacks of my driver’s test.” She slows through a two-way stop.
“Trouble passing?”
“No, I had this scary old dude who barked orders and sucked his teeth so hard I started to panic one might come loose and pop out on the dash.”
I glance at her, wondering if this is some kind of tactic she uses to defuse situations or if she’s for real. Her eyes remain focused, dead ahead.
She follows directions, taking us to the quiet streets behind the garage.
“Come to a full stop up here, and then accelerate slowly,” I direct.
She brakes, bringing the car to a halt. I listen, watching the odometer as she presses the gas. When the needle just passes the twenty-mile-per-hour mark, I hear what she might describe as the grind of a garbage disposal.
I hold my hand out. “Stop, and do it again.”
“Did you hear it?” Her tone holds a hint of excitement, as if she were doubting herself, which I find incredibly interesting.
“Maybe.” I’m not confirming anything, but I definitely heard it.
She pulls to a stop again. “What is it?”
“Shhhh.” I hold out my hand as she eases off the brake. I lean over the center console, squeezing between the seats toward the back to hear better. My chest bumps her shoulder, and she shifts closer to the door, giving me room.
I listen for the sound, but my dumbass senses identify that the smell of flowers and coconuts is her. Rather than being suffocating, it’s light and nice, butdefinitelynot what I should be taking note of.
There’s a distinct grinding, and it sounds like her left back tire might roll right off.
“That’s it. Did you hear it?”
I resituated myself beside her. “Yeah. Go right here, and it’ll take us back to the garage.”
“What is it?”
I run a hand over my short beard. “I’ll have to get it up on the lift to be sure, but it sounds like the wheel bearing.”
Silence carries us back to the garage, and she follows me inside.
I set the clipboard down next to the computer, waking it.
“Sooooo, what does that mean if it’s a wheel bearing?” She stands on the other side of the counter, watching me.
I pull up the vehicle specs. “I need to look at it, but that’s what it sounds like. Could be a rotor getting stuck, but—”
“What does that mean? What will it take to fix it?” The questions fly at me with a hint of frustration.
