Flying Gold

by Vanessa North

  He shakes his head.

  “Okay, good. It’s going to feel weird. So it’s good to find out what that feels like before your big day.”

  “There’s a lot more to this than I thought,” he admits.

  “I know. It’s pretty fucking cool, though, isn’t it?”

  There comes that sunshine smile again. For some reason, it doesn’t bother me quite as much as it did a few weeks ago. Orgasms, probably. Orgasms make his smile more tolerable. Not that we’re doing that again.

  “Okay. Let’s do this.” He pulls the helmet on and adjusts it, then hops in the car and drives it up to the pre-stage area. I hold up a hand, and he rolls down the window. “What’s up?”

  “This is when your crew makes sure the wheels are absolutely straight. Ease forward a bit.” I check his wheels as he drives through the water, then I step back to safety and give him a thumbs-up. He starts revving the engine, sending up smoke, and I pull my shirt over my mouth and nose as he completes his burnout and pulls up to the pre-stage. The first white lights come on. Then the second set.

  One set of amber lights.

  Two.

  Three.

  He lurches forward off the line as the green light comes on and floors it. His reaction time of .08 reads on the timer, a little slow, but not bad for a first attempt. And then he’s across the finish line, parachute streaming out behind him. Total time of 14.07 seconds. Not bad—but not going to qualify for a spot in the circuit either.

  Still, the grin on his face when he climbs out of the car and runs toward me is infectious, and I can’t help but smile back.

  “How was it?” he asks, breathless.

  “Not bad.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  “You need to work on your reaction time. It’s too slow. And you pulled your ’chute a hair too soon. Want to do it again? I’ll teach you how to pack the ’chute.”

  He watches quietly, asking attentive questions as I show him how to pack and install the parachute. He doesn’t try to act like he knows more than he does, and it’s one of the things I’ve always liked about him. He doesn’t dismiss my knowledge because I’m a woman, and he doesn’t feel a need to one-up me. It would be so much easier to hate him if he were an asshole.

  “Can you tune the engine to make the car faster off the line?”

  I nod. “I can get you a little more power. It’s a powerful car already—not as powerful as some of the modern cars—but you won’t be racing against those in the classics series. But really, your skills are going to make the difference here. You need practice.”

  He smiles. “Good thing that’s so much fun.”

  “All right, let’s see you do it again.”

  An hour later, after four more runs down the track and the recap afterward, the strain of controlling a car that big and that fast is starting to show on him.

  “Time to call it a day,” I say as we detach the parachute. “I’ll store this in the office at the shop, unless you have somewhere safe and dry to store it?”

  He wipes sweat from his face and shakes his head. “That’s fine. Better to keep it with the car.”

  “What kind of housing do they keep you in, when you’re working on a TV show?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s not like I care. But I’m genuinely curious.

  “The actors and some of the shorter-term crew have trailers. Some of the crew live in the area and just go home. The show runner and a few of us who are here for the full ten months of shooting have short-term leases in an apartment building near the primary set.”

  Ten months. At least one of which has already passed. “And then?”

  “We go home. If the show is renewed for a second season, we come back and do it all over again.”

  “Do you miss home?”

  “You mean L.A.?” He shrugs. “I have good friends there, but they’re in the business too. We try to reconnect when none of us are working. It’s just a place to have a permanent address and proximity to the people I need to get my next gig.”

  “Do you miss Royal ever?”

  That makes him grin. “I miss my mom. I get nostalgic about peaches in the summer. I miss boiled peanuts and garden-grown tomatoes and driving fast cars with a pretty freckled girl in the seat next to me. So yeah, I guess I do.”

  My face heats and I look down at my work boots, embarrassed, but surprisingly not angry to be reminded of our past. “Don’t be a weirdo.”

  “Ani.” The way he says the nickname feels like a caress, and I close my eyes. His fingertips ghost across my cheekbone. “If feeling nostalgic about the most exciting time of my life is weird, I’m a fucking weirdo and I’m proud of it. Don’t you remember how good it felt to lie in the sun and eat peaches and be completely ignorant of paying bills and taxes and all that other shit?”

  I might not be able to remember a time when I was ignorant of bills and taxes, but I remember him licking a trail of peach juice from my elbow to my fingertips and then kissing me breathless. I remember everything about that. And after our hookup last week, I have a host of new memories to raise the temperature when I think of him.

  “Peaches taste like you.” I open my eyes and meet his steady gaze. “And I haven’t eaten them in years.”

  He bites his lip and it’s his turn to close his eyes. “Peach season is coming, Ani.”

  Matt

  She takes the helmet from me and disappears into the main building. I put the hoses away while I wait for her to come back, and then she turns off the tree and locks up.

  “Let’s go.”

  After she locks the gate behind us and we start down the road back to Royal, she stares pensively out the window and taps one foot on my dashboard.

  “What’s on your mind?” I ask, knowing that I’m prying and still unable to sit with the silence.

  “Nothing. Just thinking about the shop.”

  “Liar.”

  She laughs. “No. I really was thinking about it. We have two dozen appointments scheduled for tomorrow. It’s going to be all hands on deck all day long.”

  “Wow. The weekend clinic sounds like it’s off to a good start. Good for you.”

  “Thanks. It feels good. I’m good at more than fixing cars.”

  “Of course you are. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

  She shakes her head, the movement barely perceptible in my peripheral vision. “I couldn’t hack it at college. I’m not smart like Tanner and Ty.”

  “College isn’t the measure of someone’s brains, Ani. It’s just a measure of how they perform in very specific conditions. You got into SCAD. That’s not easy. Your photographs in high school were straight up better than some I’ve seen professionals take. And I know a lot of photographers. You get how things work almost instinctively. Your brain is fucking beautiful.”

  Now I’ve embarrassed her. She squirms in the seat next to me. “I haven’t used my camera in years.”

  “That’s a damn shame. I wish I had half the talent you do. I had to fake it until I got so good with my camera, I could make up for my lack of vision.”

  I mean every word, and it surprises me to hear them out loud. These are the thoughts I hide from the world. These are the thoughts that ate me up inside while accepting my Oscar. And yet...this is Tiffani Ellis, and I’ve never hidden anything from her. Even when it broke her heart. So maybe it’s not that surprising that she gets to hear my secrets when everyone else gets to see the confident shell around them.

  “Tanner asked me to take engagement photos for her and Duke. I told her I’d have to think about it.”

  Tanner and—“Duke? The guy you work with? He’s engaged to Tanner?”

  Her laughter fills the car, interrupted by an adorable little snort. “They’re an odd couple, but when you see them together, they make sense.”

  “And you? Why don
’t you have a boyfriend or a husband, Ani?”

  I glance over at her and she shrugs. “Haven’t met the right guy. You?”

  “Same. I keep waiting for him to come sweep me off my feet, but...”

  She slaps my arm. “Not funny. For real. Is there someone in your life? I mean, with most people I would assume not because of what we did last week, but it’s you, so.”

  And that stings, but I deserve it. “Does the idea that I might have been cheating on someone with you bother you?”

  She shrugs again. “I feel like it should.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Neither was yours.”

  “No, I’m not with anyone. I’m not celibate, but I don’t spend a lot of time in one place. Not enough to really form an attachment to someone.” It’s not the entire truth. I form attachments—deep friendships, working partnerships. But romantic attachments are harder for me, have always been harder. The only time it had ever been easy was with her. And I fucked that up.

  “I don’t like dating,” she says, surprising me. And she must have surprised herself too, because she laughs before she continues. “I actually hate it. I hate sitting across the table from some dude who’s looking down at his phone pretending he’s not swiping right on someone else. I hate pretending to be interested in their office jobs or their favorite sports teams when they never want to talk about what’s important to me. And most of all? I hate that this is the ritual we have to go through when we want to get laid.”

  I laugh.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are. I’m laughing because you surprised me.”

  “Why, because women aren’t supposed to want sex?”

  “No—of course not. I’m just wondering what the fuck is wrong with these losers who aren’t absolutely fascinated by you.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, then she says, “I wish you’d stop saying things like that.”

  Right. Because it’s not my place to be fascinated by her anymore. Even if she’s even more fascinating now than she was ten years ago.

  “Do you want to talk about last Thursday night?” I ask, half-dreading the answer.

  “God, no.” She blows out a breath. “But I guess we should. I was upset, and you helped take my mind off it. It was hot, but it didn’t mean anything.”

  Ouch. “It didn’t mean anything...” I parrot the words back at her. “To you.”

  “Are you trying to say it meant something to you?” she retorts. “You? Mr. ‘I’m Not Celibate, But’? I’m supposed to believe that it meant something to you?”

  “You can believe what you want,” I say, practically into the steering wheel, as I pull the car into the parking lot of American Heavy Metal. “But it always means something to me.”

  “Yeah?” she asks as we climb out of the car, staring over the gold-and-black roof at me. “What did Ashley Whitmire mean to you?”

  I close my eyes, remembering back to that night. To the headache already forming, to the girl sitting on my lap, to her whisper in my ear. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” And I don’t have an answer for her, because what it didn’t mean then, and what it does mean now, are an ocean apart and I can’t cross that ocean alone.

  “That’s what I thought.” She slams the passenger door. “I think you should go.”

  I hand her the keys. “Thank you for the practice today. Let me know when you’re free to do it again.”

  She nods stiffly. “Get yourself a practice tree app and a pedal. It’ll help.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Goodbye, Matt.”

  She walks away, leaving me with no choice but to send for a $50 Uber home.

  Chapter Nine

  Tiffani

  Tanner’s house, an old Victorian downtown, is missing a front door when I show up Saturday morning and ring the bell. Furious puppy barks sound from somewhere upstairs, then Duke appears in the foyer, shirtless and barefoot. He scratches at his chest and peers out at me.

  “Hey, come on in. Tanner ran out to the hardware store. She should be back any minute.”

  I shake my head, unsurprised, and step through the gaping hole in the front of the house. “So you’re on puppy-sitting duty?”

  He grins. “More like make sure no one comes in and robs her blind while she’s buying the shims she forgot to get before tearing the door out. Come on, I’ll make coffee.”

  At home, Tanner apparently drinks the good stuff. I watch as Duke scoops some fancy Italian roast into the French press and plugs in the kettle. “All this and we get Folgers at the shop?”

  “My sister works in a cafe.” He shrugs. “Take it up with her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Work. If we’re lucky, she’ll bring us some pastries when she comes home.”

  The familiar sound of Dad’s Camaro pulling into the driveway sends my eyes closing in nostalgia. But of course it’s Tanner’s Camaro now, and it’s Tanner who comes through the doorway with a package of shims in one hand and a fast food bag in the other.

  “Tiffani, hey.” She pulls a breakfast sandwich out of the paper bag and tosses it to me. I catch it easily as she continues. “Thanks for coming over to help. I’ve got the new door set up out back—the paint is in the shed. There’s a sticky note on the can that says ‘door.’” She hands another sandwich to Duke. “How are you feeling? Can you help me level the frame?”

  “Yes, princess.” He grins down at her. “Let me go put a shirt and some shoes on.”

  “Do you have to?” She unwraps her own sandwich and takes a bite, letting her eyes travel down his body. He snorts and his grin turns into a leer. They’re so cute I could throw up.

  “Well, this is all very gross, so I’m going to go paint.”

  Tanner’s backyard is narrow but deep, with a huge magnolia tree right in the center. I walk past it to the shed, and sure enough, it’s the cleanest shed I’ve ever seen. A row of paint cans line one shelf, each with a sticky note on the side. Foyer. Bedroom. Door. I grab the can and make my way back to where she has the door set up on two A-frames. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and get to work, pondering the Tanner and Duke problem.

  Yeah, I still know my way around a camera. And I know if someone else takes their engagement photos, Duke will be all stiff and awkward, and Tanner will have her worst fake smile on, the one where she bugs her eyes out a little and shows all her teeth. They’ll hate the end result. Whereas I would pose them—well, I wouldn’t pose them, would I? I’d take them somewhere with good light and just follow them around while they’re being the adorable dorks they are. I should really do it.

  I’m putting the last touches of celery-green paint on the first coat when Tanner joins me, a Yeti full of steaming coffee in one hand. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I glance up at her and smile. In cutoffs and a long-sleeved Cubs T-shirt, she looks more like the big sister I idolized growing up than the brainy boss at work. “I like this color.”

  “Thanks.” She smiles back. “So, Duke talked to me about the house.”

  Dad’s house. My house. The only home I’ve ever had, and the one I’m desperate to be rid of. “And?”

  “I understand why you want to sell it. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready to listen when you brought it up before.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll help talk to Tyler and Tegan, okay? I think I can help them come around. They’re not thinking about it logically.”

  I don’t need them to think about it logically. Hell, I’m not thinking about it logically. I just need them to agree. “Thank you.” I say again.

  “I’m really sorry I wasn’t thinking about how hard it is for you to live there.” Her voice cracks, and she wipes at her eyes. “You’re always laughing and singing and doing stuff, and it never occurred to me you might be grieving diff
erently.”

  Oh god. “Tanner, shut the fuck up before you make me cry.”

  “Okay.” She gives a watery laugh. “I love you, Tiff.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Oh. You left your coffee inside.” She hands me her Yeti. “I put cream and sugar in.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip, nearly burning my lips. “It’s perfect.”

  “Do you want to talk about Matt?”

  “Nope.”

  She nods. “Well, I’m here, you know. If you need to.”

  “Got it.” I take another sip of the coffee. “But it’s not going to be a problem. We’ve reached a—what’s the word?—a detente.”

  “Ooh, good word.” She smiles. “I’m glad. You seem to enjoy working on his car.”

  Ahhh, the car. “Yeah. I do. I like driving it too. I wish—” Shit. I never told her how I wanted to race the Camaro. “I wish I were the one racing it.”

  “I’m surprised you never have. With the BMW.” She very carefully doesn’t mention my warning for street racing, which I know Mac told her about.

  “Um.” I squint up at the magnolia tree.

  “I mean legally, dumbass.”

  I laugh. “Maybe someday. I can’t race it in the muscle car series because it isn’t a muscle car.”

  “Right. So it’s illegal or nothing for you? There are other race series.”

  And maybe that was part of the thrill of it, but no, I’d happily enter the muscle car series if I had a muscle car. And yeah, Dad had said I could race the Camaro, but she needed it more, so there was that. I change the subject.

  “Hey, I’ll take the photos for you. The engagement photos.”

  Her eyes widen at my non sequitur, but she takes the bait. “Really? Oh, that’s awesome. Thank you so much. When do you want to do it?”

  “Whenever. You two figure out your schedules and let me know. We should plan to take them about ninety minutes before sunset, though, okay?”

  She nods, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. “Okay, cool. Maybe one night before family dinner? What should we wear?”