by Lena Bourne
He’s standing in the door to the office, framed by the hazy half-light behind him, the morning sun catching the sun bleached parts of his brown hair which is still thick and begging to be played with. He was never a small guy, and he’s put on some bulk so his frame easily fills the doorway. As easily as fantasies of running my hands down his perfect chest and abs, of wrapping my fingers around his hard as steel biceps, of getting kissed by those soft lips of his, fill my mind.
“You look good, Mia,” he says, as always getting right to the point. “And it’s good to see you.”
If I had any doubt as to the truth of his words, which I do not, then they’d be dispelled by the heat of desire that accompanies them, emanating from his eyes and engulfing me whole. No man has ever look at me the way Axle looked at me. I can’t believe he can still look at me that way, that he can still wake rivers of equal parts lust and love in me with a simple look from his honey brown eyes. It shouldn’t be possible. But it’s happening.
“It’s good to see you too, Axle,” I tell him. “It’s been too long.”
He nods at my words and I’m sure, absolutely certain, that we both know they’re the absolute truth.
6
Mia
His face has more lines, around the eyes especially, and the mouth. Years have passed, even though it feels like this is the same day, just later, that I saw him last. The day I broke up with him. And this is the alternate reality of that day, the one where I came back right after and took my words back.
Where I stayed right here in my hometown, became his wife, had his children… what the hell am I thinking?
He approaches, sunlight showing me the weathered, wind-burnt skin of his face. Years have passed. He’s not a young man anymore. I’m not a young woman anymore. How does he see me? Does he see every line on my face too?
His grin is soft, his eyes softer as he opens his arms to hug me. I extend my right hand for a handshake instead.
We’ve barely spoken. Barely looked at each other and it’s already too much. A hug would sweep me under.
His eyes lose the softness, become sharp and weary as he looks at my offered hand. He shakes it firmly nonetheless. He’s always been a man of action. Never did anything halfway. Including loving me.
“What can I do for you, Mia?” he asks.
I need to take two breaths to compose myself before answering because his touch was electric and sent a river of fire all through me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I truly don’t. I haven’t even thought about him that much lately, let alone had any lingering feelings left. Lie.
I firmly ignore the little voice saying that.
“Someone messed up my rental yesterday,” I say. “I was hoping you could fix it for me. Preferably so no one knows anything was ever wrong with it.”
“So the rental company doesn’t know, you mean?” he says with a straight face.
“Yes, that,” I say and grin. “If it can be done.”
“I don’t see why not,” he says and finally smiles again. “Let me take a look.”
I trail after him as he goes to the car to inspect the damage. He runs his thumb over the scratch on the door and shakes his head at the ruined mirror. I open the back door to hand him the missing part of it.
“Maybe you can just reattach it, or something?” I’m being flirty and acting like a teen and I’m not sure why, but it feels very natural and right.
He looks at the mess of shattered and broken plastic in my hands, then at me with a very telling—and very attractive—lopsided grin.
“Let’s see,” he says and reaches out to take it from my hands without breaking eye contact with me. It was always so easy for me to get lost in his eyes. They’re like water. Like perfect water for swimming. His fingers brush mine as he collects the broken mirror from my hands, sending another, stronger, more deadly jolt of electricity through me. This time, it doesn’t pass, but becomes a million butterflies stuck in the pit of my stomach.
He finally looks away but the butterflies stay.
“Nah, this is beyond repair,” he says, meaning the mirror, but his words are like a cold shower, dashing my other hopes. The ones I didn’t even think about, because they were so far-fetched. This whole conversation has had two levels to it: the things we spoke with our voices and the other, deeper things that were said with our eyes and our touches.
It’s time to bring it all back to the level of reality and the spoken.
I’m leaving this town in a week. After that, I’ll probably never come back. It was a mistake coming here. A mistake seeing him.
“So what am I looking at?” I ask. “A whole new side mirror and a paint job? How long’s that going to take?”
“Unless I have the parts here, which I don’t think I do, then I can’t get them in before Monday. So best case, Tuesday. Does that work for you?”
There’s an edge to his question. Like he’s regretting me being here as much as I regret coming.
“And the door?” I ask.
“I can get that done by Sunday,” he says.
“And it’ll be like nothing ever happened?” I ask.
He looks at me for a few seconds, like he’s trying really hard to hear something I didn’t actually say. Or did I?
“As good as,” he finally says. “Though, as I’m sure you know, nothing is ever exactly the same after it breaks.”
He is definitely saying more than he’s actually saying, but I have no idea how to respond.
I say, “Yes, right,” and chuckle. It’s the best I can do.
“Come into the office,” he says. “You can fill out some paperwork, while I go check on the mirror.”
The undercurrent of things unsaid is far from gone, and as I follow him inside, I don’t know why I thought I could stifle it.
I’ve been in this office a hundred times at least. The layout is the same, but the desks and phones and computers on the other side of the reception counter are all new. He points at a small round table and two chairs at the far end of the reception counter.
“Sit,” he says. “Would you like some coffee?”
His question takes me aback. “Ummm, no, thanks. I’m fine.”
Something flashes across his eyes—lust born from thinking that I am indeed fine, maybe? I don’t actually remember the last time a man looked at me with such honest desire. All there was in the eyes of the guys I’ve dated in the last few years was love of themselves.
He reaches behind the counter and hands me a light brown clipboard with several forms attached.
“You didn’t use to bother with forms so much back in the day,” I say and chuckle as I take the clipboard.
He shrugs. “We can do it off the books, if you want.”
I wish he’d smile. And I’m glad he’s not.
“It’s fine,” I say and take a pen from the jar on the table. “I might need some paperwork in case the rental company gives me a problem. Better be prepared, I guess.”
“Yeah, it’s always better to be prepared,” he says. “I’ll go in the back to check if we have the mirror here or if I’ll have to order it. I’ll just be a second.”
I nod and look at the forms. At first I have a hard time collecting my thoughts enough to start filling them out. I push through.
By the time I’m on the second page, clarity is once again restored to my thoughts. Obviously, I still have feelings for Axle. Getting over him was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
But I did get over him. There’s no reason to think about could have beens now. It never was and never will be between us. End of story.
7
Axle
Diesel’s in the garage, putting the finishing touches on the BMW that’s getting picked up later today. I can feel his eyes boring holes into my back as I go into the storage area.
I don’t even bother turning on the light in there. I’m perfectly content standing in the dim interior, the only illumination coming from the garage proper, surrounded by the boxes of
supplies and smells of my trade that have kept me calm, content and sane my whole life.
It’s one thing thinking of Mia once in a while, fantasizing about what might have been, or, more often, just running into her and letting what happens happen. But having her just drop in out of the blue, her hair all shiny and done up, smelling of soap and that special scent that’s just hers—rich, deep, yet tangy and sweet. The only thing that comes close to it is a summer night deep in the redwood forest. I missed her voice too. And the way she speaks to me. When she does, it’s still like we’re the only two people in the world.
“You know very well you can check all our stock from the computer in the office,” Diesel says behind me, his grin evident in his voice. “Go back there and ask her out for a drink.”
I turn to him and run my fingers through my hair. It’s sticky and greasy. The coveralls I’m wearing are the same. Not what I pictured wearing to a reunion with Mia.
“I don’t know if it’s such a good idea,” I say. “I can’t tell if she’s flirting with me or what.”
The look on Diesel’s face can only be described as pity. “Does it matter, man? Ask her out, see where it goes. Find out if she’s flirting or not. You know you want to. Plus, I kinda think she might be.”
Fuck, I feel like I’m back in high school.
“I think this is the exact same conversation we had before I asked her out the first time,” I say. She was a cheerleader then. The prettiest of all of them. With her long curly, reddish-brown hair and hourglass figure that her tight uniform could barely contain. I was the linebacker for our high school football team. And nervous as hell about getting rejected by her. They don’t make them as gorgeous as her often, and she’s still as pretty as she ever was. But, in my darkest moments, I also often thought asking her out in the first place was a mistake.
“Dude, stop over thinking this,” Diesel says. “She’s still fine as hell, she came here looking for you and besides, you already got over her once. You can do it again.”
Everything’s a joke to Diesel, especially everything that has to do with women. I envy his ability to keep his head with them. I never could.
“You know you want to,” he adds, and that finally cinches the deal.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say and walk past him out of the storage room and to the office.
I do know I want to spend some good old quality time with Mia and see what happens. I don’t know if I should. But I know I want to.
8
Mia
I’m standing by the counter when he reenters the office, having gotten up to deposit the clipboard there and because I couldn’t sit still anymore.
His warmth and his bulk suddenly tower over me, his smell—grease, metal and the forest in spring—overwhelms me and his eyes boring into mine nearly sweep me off my feet.
“Did you find the spare part?” I manage to ask, needing to hear my own voice to ground me back in the here and now.
He shakes his head. “I’ll have to order it. So it’s looking like Tuesday at the earliest. Is that OK with you?”
I shrug and can’t help but smile. “I guess it’ll have to be.” I’m getting that lost boy vibe from him that he always gets when he’s nervous. It never ceased to amaze me how this tower of a man could ever get embarrassed. I loved that honesty and simplicity about him. Among many other things.
He grins. “Well, since you have all this time now, while you have to wait and all, how about we go grab a drink? You know to catch up, and such.”
I gasp, feel my eyes go very wide. I expected this. I prepared an answer for it. Now that he’s asked all my very good reasons to say no are a pile of mush in the corner of my brain. And they’re not forming into words. He’s looking at me very intently as he waits for me to speak.
“I…I have to…my mom needs…she’s waiting for me.. She needs my help…”
“I didn’t mean right now,” he interrupts. “I meant tonight. We can have dinner. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. Your mom’s place?”
I open and close my mouth a few times then just nod. I don’t have one single good reason to say no. I want to know what he’s been up to while I was gone. I want to spend an evening with him more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.
“Yes, OK,” I say and smile. “I’ll be waiting.”
A car has pulled up outside, a muscle car by the sound of it.
“Your next customer is here, I guess,” I say and walk to the door.
He rolls his eyes and beats me to the door to hold it open for me.
Outside a skinny, balding man in horn-rimmed glasses is standing next to the tall black-haired weasel who is evicting my mother and crushing everything she’s worked for her entire life. They’ve clearly arrived in the shiny blue Mustang parked next to my SUV.
“Don’t trust that guy,” I say to Axle, nodding at the black-haired man. “He’s a snake through and through.”
Axle looks at me from the side of his eyes, taking my words seriously, taking them to heart. As he always did.
“I’ll see you later,” I tell him and stalk off past the men. “I have to go help my mother clear out her salon.”
I’m sure I just confused everyone there to no end, but if I stay and say anything more, I might just end up in a cat fight with this guy. I don’t miss being as feisty and fiery as I was in my youth. But I sure missed Axle's steady, calming presence in my life. More than I knew.
9
Axle
The black-haired guy is staring after Mia with such venomous contempt in his eyes I’d like to punch him. The fact that he’s wearing too much of some exotic cologne which makes my nose itch even from a distance isn’t helping me to keep my cool. The scraggly, balding guy with glasses is probably the buyer for the Mustang that announced himself and his money a couple of days ago.
I didn’t want them to be here before, and now I’m on the verge of telling them to leave. I have no idea what Mia meant, but she sounded exactly like the Mia who was my girlfriend once upon a time, and the Mia that would’ve been my wife if she hadn’t sent me packing.
“What can I help you with?” I ask sharply and loudly to get the guy’s attention away from Mia's retreating form. I really should’ve asked her if she needed a ride, since she left the car here and her mom’s salon is quite a walk from here. What the fuck was I thinking?
“We’re here to see the Shelby?” the skinny guy says, phrasing it as a question. “The Mustang.”
“You the one who called?” I snap. I’m being as off-putting as I can be without outright sending them packing.
The guy nods, but doesn’t speak.
I turn to the black-haired guy. “And you’re here as what, his babysitter?”
I’m not usually this caustic to customers, no matter how much they annoy me. I might’ve been, once upon a time, but I’ve grown up since then. Clearly, seeing Mia again, and her flirting with me, and showing me she hasn’t changed one bit, despite her smart clothes, fancy way of speaking and the lines around her eyes.
“My Mustang’s been acting up,” the guy says. “I was hoping you could take a look at it. I’ve been told you’re the guy to come to on the West Coast. That you’re the best. I sure wish I bought it from you in the first place. The guy who sold it to me ripped me off.”
His tone is grating, bordering on sleazy. What’s with these people thinking they’ll soften me up with sweet words and cash. I’m about to send them both packing in no uncertain terms, when I hear the screen door of the office slam shut behind me.
“You want me to take over?” Diesel asks. He’s just in time to prevent me from going down a road of no return, as always. Usually he just has to look at my face to know what I’m about to say or do. It’s the same for me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Show him the Shelby and I’ll look at this car.”
Diesel motions for the smaller man to follow him.
“And I’m not painting over it,” I call after them. “That’s out of
the question.”
Diesel gives me a small wave, indicating he understood without turning around.
“Now tell me what the problem is with your car,” I say to the black-haired guy.
He gives me a wide, much too toothy grin and extends his hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot for some reason. The name’s Lester Miles.”
His teeth are so unnaturally bright they gleam in the sun, and the smell of his cologne almost makes me gag now that he’s so close. and now that I know who he is—the guy who’s been turning my hometown into a getaway for big city burnouts—he’s even more repulsive.
“Axle,” I say and shake his hand regardless.
“And I assure you I’ve done nothing to harm that lady friend of yours,” he adds.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you did or didn’t do,” I say pointedly. “But you’re here about the car.”
“Yes, right,” he says and proceeds to explain to me what’s bothering him using language and words I don’t really understand. It’s always the same with all these yuppies who think they can handle muscle cars. They can’t fucking handle Kias and Mazdas, let alone those fancy German cars so many of them insist on driving. Whatever. Not my problem.
If there’s something wrong with his Mustang I’ll fix it as a matter of principle and pride. That’s my calling in this world, such as it is, and my one true talent.
In the end, I interrupt and tell him it’d be better if he just showed me what the problem is. It entails taking a ride, since his problem seems to only show up at high speeds.
It’s a ride I’d much rather take alone, especially after I realize the smell of his annoying cologne or perfume or whatever he’s wearing is absolutely overpowering inside the car. What the fuck did he do? Douse the leather seats with it?
I keep the ride as short as I can, which was mostly achieved by driving as fast as I could. By the time we pull back into the garage lot, he’s as pale as a sheet and trembling slightly. Like I already knew. This guy cannot handle a muscle car.