Читать книгу If I Fix You - Abigail Johnson, Эбигейл Джонсон - Страница 7

Prologue

February

Mom left on a Tuesday. I remember because Tuesdays were taco night and Dad and I to this day don’t eat tacos. Also because that was the night I fell out of love with Sean Addison.

Winter was old and wheezing by late February. The lingering chill in the air still bit at my skin after sunset, making it hard to remember that in a few months it’d be hot enough for the soles of my sneakers to stick to the asphalt.

Tourists from back East flocked to Arizona during the winter months, so the snowbirds, as we called them, were still thick on the roads and in Dad’s auto shop. I’d personally changed enough oil that winter to fill a swimming pool, and that particular Tuesday was no different. I was drowning in motor oil. The plastic smell of it clung to my hair and coated my lungs when I inhaled. My red coveralls were smeared with the same greasy stains that turned my hands that ineffable shade of zombie gray.

But all of that was okay, because I could change oil in my sleep, which left me free to dream about the only thing I’d ever truly wanted: a 1967 Triumph Spitfire Mark III convertible with Sean Addison riding shotgun.

The sports car I’d wanted ever since I had helped my dad rebuild one when I was eight. It was creamy white with tan leather seats and the original chrome bumpers (which federal safety regulations didn’t allow on later models). The budding mechanic in me had swooned over the one-piece front end that tilted forward for unparalleled engine access, and the exhaust that sang like a siren to my ears. I’d been saving to buy my own for the past eight years.

The boy I’d wanted from the first day of kindergarten. He took in my coveralls—which I insisted on wearing everywhere back then—and instead of teasing me like the other kids, asked me if I could fix the tire on his fire engine. As we got older, I started liking him for more than his good taste in mechanics. Beyond the fact that his eyes were the exact shade of my favorite blue jeans, he could always tell when I needed to laugh after a night spent listening to my parents fighting. Sure, Sean was more likely to high-five me than kiss me these days, but I planned on fixing that.

“Jill?” Dad’s voice echoed around the garage bay and stalled my car-and-boy-fueled daydream.

“Under the white Civic.” I rolled out on my creeper, sat up and spun to face him in a way that still made me grin like a four-year-old. I didn’t even mind that the momentum made my dark blond braid slap me in the face.

Dad and I had been nearly the same height for the past year, but what he lacked in height he made up for in girth—and not an ounce of it fat. He could lift a midsize car with his bare hands. He used to joke that that was how he’d gotten Mom to marry him.

Dad was already pointing over his shoulder, but I cut him off, a premonition making me narrow my eyes. “If it’s another oil change, I’m calling Child Protective Services.”

Dad considered me. I was half serious, which made him smile. “How about a clogged fuel intake—”

“Deal.” I’d reek of gasoline by the time I was done, but it’d be a welcome change from motor oil. Plus I happened to like the smell of gasoline. I scrambled to my feet.

“—and an oil change.”

I sank back down and cocked my head at him. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding or if you just hate me.”

Dad tossed me a screwdriver.

“So the latter, then.”

Dad was halfway across the bay when he turned back in a much-too-casual-to-be-casual way. “Oh, did I mention it’s a ’69 Plymouth Road Runner?”

That caught my attention. Big-time. Dad knew I had a weakness for muscle cars. “Seriously? Does it have the beep-beep horn?”

Dad shrugged. “Are you willing to get your hands dirty to find out?”

I held up my hands. “Dad.” I needed to say only that one word. The telltale line of grease was visible underneath all ten of my fingernails. It would take a solid twenty minutes of scrubbing to get it out, and weariness beat vanity most nights. Dad didn’t even bother anymore. Drove Mom nuts. At dinner she’d stare at the pair of us over the table and make little comments about dirty hands. Never mind that it wasn’t dirt, just a little clean grease to show how hard we worked.

I’d spent my days at Dad’s auto shop every summer, and even some school nights, since I’d learned how to hold a wrench. Seriously, I knew how to change a tire before I could tie my shoes. Dad still had my first tiny pair of coveralls hanging in the main garage.

I wasn’t afraid to get my hands dirty, especially if it meant working on a true classic.

“Ragtop or hardtop?” I asked, hurrying to join Dad by the door.

He dropped a kiss on my head and ushered me ahead of him. “If it was a ragtop, I’d have sent you home early and kept her all to myself.”

“Sure you would.” Dad once took me out of school in the middle of chemistry class when we got a 1964 Shelby GT in the shop. Because he couldn’t wait two hours to show it to me.

“Should we order pizza, make it a night?”

As awesome as that sounded, Dad had obviously forgotten one important detail. “Last night you told Mom we’d be home early for dinner.”

Dad’s smile died. “You heard that?”

I curled my fist tighter around the screwdriver, hating the way his shoulders hunched when he felt like he’d let me down. Lately, they’d been fighting more. Sometimes Mom would be waiting for Dad at the door and would lay into him before he could get inside. The only semisolace I’d been able to find night after night was climbing out my window up to the roof, but even there I could hear them. Sometimes I’d swear she was trying to make him hate her.

Sometimes, I wondered why he didn’t.

Acting as a buffer between my parents was not high on my wish list, but I’d rather she snipe at me than yell at Dad again. “Do you want me...to call her?”

Dad shook his head, strong shoulders still hunched. I vowed silently not to give him any more grief about oil changes for at least the rest of the week. Hopefully, the inevitable blowup with Mom would have cooled in a few days.

Dad’s tight-lipped expression told me he wasn’t nearly as optimistic as I was.

“I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you finish up the Civic. We’ll start the Road Runner tomorrow.”

“As in Wile E. Coyote?”

Dad and I turned to see Sean come strolling into the garage. My mood skyrocketed at the sight of him. Yes, he was blue-eyed, blond-haired and all kinds of pretty, but he actually looked even better on the inside. It was the combination that brought that euphoric Christmas morning smile to my face.

“Little late for a walk-in, Sean.”

Sean was used to Dad’s less than warm demeanor—which I was going to optimistically attribute to fallout from having to call Mom—so he answered with a smile. “Hey, Mr. Whitaker. I was in the neighborhood, and Jill keeps offering to change my oil.”

My eyes closed slowly and I could feel Dad’s stare. It wasn’t like this particular cat was still in the bag, but Dad getting so much concrete proof of my crush felt like I’d gotten caught driving a Prius.

Fortunately for me, Sean didn’t notice the awkwardness and kept up an easy conversation with Dad. He even attempted to tell a car joke, which admittedly, did not go over well, but he still tried. That was the kind of friend he was.

I nearly dropped my screwdriver gazing at him.

Dad clapped his hands together, making me jump. “I tell you what, Sean, why don’t you show me your little Nazi buggy and I’ll check your oil.”

Sean cocked his head. “You know, I’m pretty sure the fine folks at Volkswagen decided the name ‘Nazi buggy’ was too regional when they released the Jetta.”

Dad shrugged. “It’s still not a real car. It’s like...”

“A neutered, asthmatic poodle?” I said.

“Whoa.” Sean slid a step back from me like I’d insulted his manhood.

Dad grinned as if proud that I still had my priorities in order when it came to boys and cars. “Then I’ll leave it to Jill.” Catching my eye as he left, Dad added, “Don’t let him distract you.”

My cheeks flushed. “I’ll get everything done.”

Sean watched Dad leave the garage and I headed to the slop sink to wash up. Well, that, and so Sean wouldn’t see the blush still heating my face.

Sean leaned against the wall to my left. “You like my Jetta.” It was half question, half statement.

“I like your Jetta—”

“Right? Right.”

“—I’d like it better if it went from zero to sixty in 3.5 seconds.”

“Does that mean you’re too cool to ride in it when you get off?”

I splashed water at him. “No.”

“Good, ’cause I’m starving.”

“Me too, but I’ve still got cars to finish, then I have to sweep and use the auto scrubber on the floor, and replace the ceiling light in the corner. On top of that, I need to grab a quick shower and change before we go anywhere.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sean held up his hands. “I can help with most of that, and I think you’re seriously underestimating how hot you look in a one-size-fits-all jumpsuit.”

I laughed. No one looked good in a one-size-fits-all jumpsuit, except maybe Mom. “Really, you want to help?”

Sean picked up a reciprocating saw and raised an eyebrow. I turned the handheld saw right side up in his hands. “I was testing you.”

“Sure you were.”

Sean eyed the rest of the equipment around him. “Maybe I’ll start with replacing the light.”

“Good call.” I pulled out a new bulb from a cabinet and offered it to him. “There’s a ladder in the closet.”

Sean looked toward the closet then back to me. “Too far.” He bent, wrapping his arms around my legs, and lifted me up, way up, considering I was already pretty tall and Sean made me look short. “I’m better than a ladder, right?” He gave me a bounce that had me clutching his hair.

“I swear, Sean, if you drop me...”

He grinned and bounced me again. “That’s your problem. You lack follow-through. If you’re going to threaten me, be specific.”

I switched out the bulb, shot the broken one into a nearby trash can and made a swish sound. “How’s that for follow-through?”

“Not bad.” Sean pulled his arm to one side and caught me around my back with the other, carrying me like the fireman he planned to be. The way he was smiling at me... I started to feel like Christmas morning. My arms tightened around his neck.

“Time to leave, Sean.”

Sean and I whipped our heads toward Dad. I hadn’t even noticed him come back. “He was helping me change the lightbulb.” I elbowed Sean, and he grunted before putting me down, then pointed to the light overhead.

“Yeah, but since I’m not paying either one of you to do that...”

“Are you offering me a job, Mr. Whitaker?” Then Sean elbowed me back, tickling me right between the ribs. “Jill, tell him what a mean ladder I make.”

I couldn’t tell Dad anything while I was laughing. Dad thought Sean was a reckless flirt. I thought Sean was reckless perfection. Dad didn’t appreciate the distinction the way I did. That was another thing I needed to fix.

“He’s leaving.”

“I am? Aren’t we hanging out?”

“Yes,” I said, making it more of a question than I wanted as I met Dad’s eye. He gave a slight but reluctant nod and I turned fully to Sean. “My house in an hour?”

Sean paused, and a tiny frown appeared between his brows, but then it was gone. “Don’t be late.” He lightly knocked my shoulder with his fist, waved at Dad and left. He might as well have said, See you later, my totally platonic pal.

I drew a finger across my throat and let my tongue drop out to one side, then I zombie shuffled toward the cars that would probably keep me busy way past closing.

And what do you know, they did.

On the upside, I didn’t have to wait for Dad. Whatever conversation he’d had with Mom, it was bad enough that he “decided to work late” and sent me home alone. If I were going to see anyone but Sean, I’d have let that knowledge affect my mood.

When I got home and spotted his Jetta, I was practically giddy to the point that I ignored the ajar front door, which made the contrast all the more devastating when I walked into the living room and found...my mom and my... Sean.

It was like one of those optical illusion pictures where all the lines cross and intersect but don’t seem to originate from anywhere. A trick. There was no other explanation for seeing Mom curved on the armrest of Dad’s favorite chair, legs crossed, leaning over Sean so that her blouse gaped open and skin and lace spilled free.

I watched her toy with the button on his shirt, trace the edge with her fingernail. My vision shrank to a pinprick when I saw her lips moving toward his ear.

When her free hand slid to touch his thigh, it was like the world exploded. All at once there was a rushing sound in my head and my bag slipped through my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

I’ll never forget Sean’s eyes when he jerked his head up and his gaze met mine, wide and utterly devoid of the warmth it usually held for me.

Ice and fire burned inside my chest in the split second before he shot out of the chair and bolted to the door, leaving Mom holding his jacket in her hands. He said something to me, words that ricocheted off the dead thing inside me and fell to the floor between us. I couldn’t hear anything until the door shut behind him.

He’d just been sitting there, not leaning in or touching her back. Later I wanted that to mean something, but there was no killing the insidious and relentless thought that slithered around in my head, refusing to die no matter how many times I stabbed it:

Sean didn’t leave until I showed up.

And Mom. My mother.

I didn’t know that betrayal was a thing. I didn’t know that it could paralyze while it quietly devoured light and sound and the air itself.

She was still holding his jacket. She was still sitting in Dad’s chair.

Dad.

And it started again. Only it was his pain on top of mine, crushing and constricting, and I made a noise that wasn’t a word.

I stood there with my fingers twitching, longing for the feel of my bag and the ability to move backward in time. Not just before this night, this moment, but months and years. Back to a time when she loved us enough not to annihilate everything, only my memories dissolved before I found it.

I had no defense against her words, nothing to shield myself with. She could have pierced my heart with a single syllable. But she didn’t, and that was worse.

She didn’t even try.

Mom slunk silently into her room. Her final words to me were scribbled on a Post-it note I found on my pillow the next morning. My eyes blurred so much while reading it that the only thing I noticed was, she spelled the word suffocating wrong.