How to Quit Your Crush

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  I nod, though that means nothing to me. “Now that I know you made it, it’s, well…”

  “Not horrible?”

  Better than not horrible, but I’m feeling, well, all mushy inside. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling. What if I say something mushy because of it? I study his hands the way I have before. Short, bitten nails, calloused palms, tiny white scars. Rugged hands. Hands that can swing a baseball bat, that can work power tools. I always saw these hands as too different, too rough for me. These are the same hands that had the idea of taking a bike chain and turning it into a cuff. These are the hands that touch my cheek with impossible softness. I’ve been so wrong about these hands.

  “Mai?”

  His voice is gravelly, and I realize I’ve been sliding my thumb across the web of veins at his wrist. I’m not sure if I stepped closer or he did, but I can feel his breath on my hair. I don’t stop, working my fingers under the chain, warmed from his skin. The clasp is a square piece of metal. “How did you make this?”

  “I bought the clasp. Soldered it to the ends of the chain.”

  “With one of those fire things?”

  His lips brush near my ear. A warm ache kicks up low in my belly. “It’s called a soldering iron.”

  I lick my lips. “I find your knowledge of power tools strangely sexy.”

  “Good to know.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I could describe the table saw and my oscillating multi tool.”

  I’m smiling, too, as I notice something engraved in the face of the clasp. “6-2-17.” This Saturday. The anniversary of his dad’s death. My hand softens as his stiffens. The chunk of ugly is transformed with his words. “So now I really don’t hate it,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Why didn’t you tell me, Anthony?”

  “You never asked.”

  Our eyes meet. I know why I didn’t ask. Because I told myself I was an expert on the subject of Anthony Adams. And now I’ve gotten my test back and discovered I bombed it.

  “I’m asking now,” I say. “Why the bike chain?”

  “I told you my dad loved biking. He was always fixing up one or two bikes, so there were parts lying around the garage.” He looks away, but not before I see the flash of grief in his eyes. “Once he got too weak to ride, I took apart a chain from one of the bikes, and I made him this cuff. It was stupid, really. Too heavy for him to wear. But he held it like rosary beads. Some of the smoothness is from his thumb running over it those last weeks.” His throat works. “I engraved the clasp a few months after he died. Started wearing it. Got to where I don’t feel right without it on.”

  I reach for his hand, weave my fingers through his. “I’m sorry I thought mean things about it.”

  His fingers squeeze mine, accepting my apology.

  I gesture to the tools and the worktable. “Did your dad teach you all of this?”

  “In a way. My dad worked for a homebuilder, putting in air conditioning systems. When a new subdivision was going in, he’d be on site for weeks. Troy and I would hang out with him during summers and school breaks. Troy was always climbing shit and jumping off it, but I wanted to play construction.”

  “So you made yard animals?” I guess.

  “It didn’t start that way, but yeah. I was gluing metal and wood together and coming up with injuries waiting to happen. My dad finally got smart and signed me up for a construction class at the Y. I learned how to use a soldering iron and a table saw.”

  “You have a whole shop here. It couldn’t have been cheap.”

  “I got lucky with that. The general contractor I work for, Dan Garvey, does a lot of welding projects for remodels. When he found out I was interested, he started passing down his old tools. The table was his, too.”

  “Have you sold any pieces?”

  “No.” He sounds embarrassed that I even asked. “That stuff wouldn’t be out front right now except my mom is, well, my mom.”

  I shake my head, taking all of it in again. “You’re an artist, Anthony.”

  “Not an artist. Just a guy who likes junk and power tools.”

  He means that, I can tell. He doesn’t think what he’s doing is special. “You made me think all you did in your spare time was chill. Nothing about this feels chill.” I move to a shelf of finished pieces, run a finger over the metal form of a man with a clock face in place of a heart. There’s something different about this. It’s not like anything I’ve seen before. “This is wonderful,” I say. “Why is it on a shelf in the garage?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not that good.”

  “Anthony.” I shake my head and wander back toward the tubs. “So what were you picking up in the desert?”

  “Bottle caps mostly.”

  “What’re you going to do with them?”

  “I don’t know. I like the way they look, but it’s not like I have a plan.” He gives me the ghost of a smile. “A shocker, I know.”

  I smile and study the towel-covered lump. “What is this?” I pull off the towel before he can protest.

  He lets out a sigh. “It’s something I started a while back.”

  Square metal frame. Pipes poking out in four directions. “A picture frame?” I guess. “No, wait. A window?”

  He nods.

  “What are the pipes?”

  “Four spokes. Four directions.”

  “A compass?” My eyes widen as the vision fills my head. “A window to the world? Is that it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Traveling in any direction. Every direction?” It’s so…Anthony. “That’s kind of brilliant.”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Mai.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re seeing more than there is.”

  I don’t know how to say I’m not. That the problem is I haven’t been seeing enough. If he worked at this, really committed… In my mind, I’m already making lists of where he should start. What he should do. “You know Community Cares offers grants?”

  “What?”

  “Not just for college. You can apply for a grant to pursue artistic endeavors, too. We’ve had a playwright before and a painter.” I gesture to the piece on his work table. “You could pursue this with some extra money and a community mentor in your area of interest. Anthony, this is perfect.”

  “Slow down, Mai.” He steps back, shaking his head. “I’m not ready for all of that. Okay? I’m still figuring it out.”

  I blink, wondering what there is to figure out. “It’s a great opportunity and something you want to do.”

  “Why do you even care? You’re leaving in a week. You’re not going to ever see me again.” His chin juts out at that last bit. “I heard you say that to Grant.”

  It takes a minute for me to remember the morning on the trail. I wince, thinking about how that must have sounded.

  “Did you mean it?” he asks.

  “I don’t know what I meant. What I mean. This hasn’t worked out the way it was supposed to.” I draw in a breath, the muggy heat of the garage. The scent of grease. Wood. Metal. Anthony. In a way, everything’s changed because of the things I’ve learned. The way I feel. But in other ways, nothing has.

  I think of what Mom and Dad always say. Think it through. If you can’t make logic of something, then why do it? Even now, this defies all logic. I hear their voices in my head. Ethan’s. Even Josie’s.

  You’re leaving, Mai. You have a plan.

  He doesn’t want the same future.

  He could never fit in with your life.

  It’s not practical.

  This isn’t like you.

  It isn’t. Nothing about this fling is like me.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  “That I wish things were different.”

  I look into his face, the lights above adding a sharpness to his cheeks. A
sadness to his eyes. “Too bad we can’t live in a garage with just two people and no expectations.”

  “And no plans already made. No paths already laid out.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We still have over a week.” He steps closer. “That’s at least eight months in dog time.”

  I step closer, too. “Thousands of organisms go through their entire life span in less than a week.”

  “See? Plenty of time.” He takes the final step that brings him close enough to slide his fingers through mine. His voice is a whisper above my ear. “You remember what Rita said, the teacher in the cooking class? About chemistry?”

  I blink, trying to focus. “About if you understood it, you could control it?”

  He nods.

  “I remember.”

  “That’s what we need to do. Understand our chemistry. Break it down. Figure out how to control it.”

  My pulse skips. “A clinical study. We approach a kiss in a methodical, analytical way.”

  “Take away the magic.”

  “You like the magic,” I remind him.

  “The magic right now is kind of killing me.”

  I slide my hands up his neck. My carefully trained brain knows this isn’t a good idea, but tonight I don’t care. The magic is killing me, too. His breath mingles with mine. “Slowly,” I say, working my fingers through his hair.

  “Right. Slowly.” He slides one hand over my cheek, and his touch is a little rough and completely perfect. He brushes his lips over mine, and I sigh. He goes slow until I forget why slow mattered. Until I’ve got my hands in his shirt, pulling him close. I want to forget everything but how good this feels. For the first time, my brain refuses to shut down, whispering to my heart: You liar. A week isn’t enough time. Not even close.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Anthony

  “You smell like sunlight.”

  Mai straightens, resting her gloved hand on the handle of her rake. “The sun doesn’t have a scent.”

  “It does on you.” I take the last few steps down the trail so I’m just above her, the rocky wall of the hillside behind me, and Mai in front, the sun creating a golden halo effect around her. Even dressed in baggy work clothes, every time I see her it’s like a shot of espresso hits my veins.

  She glances behind me.

  “The others are up above dealing with a cholla that won’t behave.”

  “Oh.” Her smile lights me up. We’re alone, and she wants that, too.

  It’s Saturday morning, and I was up before my alarm. I couldn’t wait to get here. To see Mai. All morning, I’ve had the scents of grease and Mai in my head. The things we said.

  The things we did.

  I step closer. “You’re wearing an extremely sexy shade of beige today.”

  “Quiet.” She checks the trail again. “And it’s not beige. It’s fawn.” She looks down. “Or maybe oatmeal.”

  “You can’t wear oatmeal and not expect to make me wild.”

  She loses hold of her grin. “Stop being in such a good mood.”

  “Can’t help it. I’m having a fling with this girl.”

  “Really?”

  “And last night was…excellent.”

  She clears her throat, a rush of color darkening her cheeks. “We did spend some quality time at second base.”

  I pull down my sunglasses to give her a heavy-lidded look. “Yeah, we did.”

  She pushes her rake through the dirt, kicking up dust and sending a few cut branches over the side of the trail. My voice comes out husky, my throat is so dry. “We have to talk.”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight is Jason’s party. Besides, it can’t wait. This morning,” I say. “Meet me in the equipment shed.”

  “What? No.” She sweeps the rake back and forth, though there are no more cuttings.

  “When we’re done. No one will know. Offer to put away the rakes. I’ll offer to put away the shears.”

  She’s squeezing the rake handle so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break off. Her teeth are digging in to her bottom lip, and I want to kiss her right. There. My body vibrates like I’m holding a power saw. “Say yes, Maya.”

  Footsteps sound from above. Amber and Grant appear from the bend in the trail. Ben and Mallory are just behind.

  “We got it,” Amber calls down.

  “Put up a hell of a fight,” Grant says, tromping down behind her. “But we conquered that sucker.”

  Mai steps past me, careful not to brush her sleeve against me. Her voice is bright and too loud. “You’re wearing part of it on your shoulder.”

  “What?” Grant turns, and sure enough, a ball of the Cholla has attached itself to his shirt. Mai watches while Amber frees him using a small plastic comb she carries for this exact reason.

  “You okay?” Mai asks.

  “Yeah. Just got my shirt.” He smiles at her, and I’m even jealous of that.

  Amber checks her watch. “That’s good work for today. We got a lot done this week. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll see you all back on Monday. Oh,” she adds, “don’t forget to put away all your equipment.”

  “I can check in the shears,” I say. I reach for Amber’s. Grant’s.

  “Thanks,” he says. I know he doesn’t trust me, but he’s also never been anything but polite. Doesn’t mean I have to like him.

  From behind me there’s the sound of a voice clearing. Mai. “I’ll take the rakes.”

  Halle-freaking-lujah.

  I start down before anyone can see my shit-eating grin. I’m about to get Mai alone in the equipment shed. Me. Not Grant. Even with the threat of getting caught. I don’t want to think too hard about what that means. But I think it means something.

  I know I want it to mean something.

  In the equipment shed, I put the shears away and wait. I can hear the others walking past, talking as they head to the parking lot. My hands are working in and out of fists now that this is about to happen. I run fingers over the links of my cuff. The air squeezes out of my lungs. I wasn’t lying to Mai. We do need to talk.

  Last night, Mai got me thinking. About my art. About her. About what happens after our fling ends. After I dropped her at the library, I drove around for a long time. She’s waking something up inside me—something I thought died with my dad. I haven’t wanted to look too far ahead, but now I can’t help myself. She’s breathing air into the future like it’s a balloon—expanding it in front of my eyes. Making me want to believe in it again. She makes me want to think about tomorrow and the next day and six months from now and a year from then.

  Maybe our idea of temporary doesn’t have to mean a week. Maybe it can mean see where this is going—where it could go. We’re like two pieces of metal you put under the flame. They melt in ways you don’t always expect. Maybe we’ll end up being something unexpected, too. Hell, so far, nothing else has gone as planned.

  All I know is I don’t want us to end. I’m feeling things. Things I’ve never felt before. I press a hand to my chest where my heart is beating way too fast.

  I hear her footsteps and straighten. I swallow my nerves and wipe sweaty hands on my jeans. If she’s feeling even a little of what I’m feeling… I have to know. Have to ask.

  “Mai, you got a minute? I wanted to thank you.”

  Amber’s voice.

  Steps falter.

  “For what?” I hear Mai ask.

  Amber’s voice rises with excitement. “Your dad asked me to attend the Community Cares dinner as one of the Volunteer Reps. I thought you might have had something to do with that.”

  “He does all that based on merit. But congratulations.”

  “Yeah. So. The dinner.” She laughs a little. “I’ve never been to a black tie thing before. I’m glad you’ll be there with Grant.”

  With G
rant?

  The words work through me, bump along every bone in my spine until I feel as brittle as frozen steel.

  “Not with Grant.” Mai’s voice jumps. She knows I’m listening—so maybe it’s okay. Maybe Amber’s got it wrong.

  “When I saw your dad at the main office, he said you were bringing him.”

  “My parents are playing matchmaker.”

  “Yours do that, too, huh?” There’s a short laugh. “So you’re not asking him?”

  There’s a pause. Too long of a pause. “It’s complicated.”

  No. It’s not complicated at all.

  “Don’t worry,” Amber says. “I won’t say anything. Come on. I’ll help you put away the rakes.”

  Shit. I run hands through my hair. Well, so what if Amber knows?

  “I’ve got them,” Mai says. “You have to log out all the time sheets.”

  “And it’s Saturday, which means end-of-the-week write-up, too.” I hear Amber’s boots and her calling, “Don’t worry about locking up the shed. I’ll do it before I leave. Have a great weekend.”

  “You, too.”

  I force a few breaths, looking for the calm I always had. Before Mai. She’s messed that up, too. I’m leaning against the long table, feet crossed at the ankle, when Mai steps in. Her sunglasses come off. Worried eyes meet mine.

  Be chill. “So you and Grant have a date, huh?”

  “You were eavesdropping.” She carries the rakes to the tub and sets them inside.

  “That’s what you want to talk about?”

  She turns to face me. “It’s not a date. It’s a dinner. I told you about it the other night.”

  “You didn’t mention Grant.”

  “I haven’t invited him.”

  “Yet?” I clear my throat, because that didn’t sound at all chill.

  “My parents want me to ask him, Anthony.” She looks miserable. “Right now, that’s the plan.”

  “It doesn’t have to be your plan. Our plan.”

  “But it kind of is.” She shrugs. “The dinner is next Friday. Our fling will be over.”

  Jeez. And to think I wanted more while she’s been counting the days? Anger chugs through my veins, along with another emotion I don’t want to put a name to. Don’t want to let myself feel. Anger is good. I’ll focus on that. The way she’s arranged this the way she wants. Well, the hell with that.