I fingered the strings of my apron. “We have a history.”

“I knew it!” Jenny’s whole face lit up. “You have that look of a girl who’s been done right by her man.”

My hands flew to my cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“I just can see it! I knew when I saw him pinning you on the counter that he’d be all up in your business in no time flat.”

The front door jingled. “Someone’s here. I’ll handle them.” I pushed past Jenny and this time she let me go, still chuckling. I felt like all my secrets had suddenly gotten chalked onto the menu. Well, not all of them. But enough. 

Even if Bud had told me to toss tires all day, I wouldn’t have cared. My feet barely touched the ground as I crossed the garage and clocked in. The other mechanics punched each other knowingly, and Randy shouted, “Looks like Gavin finally got something he didn’t have to take out a loan for.” I ignored their jeers. You’d think by the way they acted that nobody ever got laid around here.

Bud winked at me — was I wearing a damn sign on my back? As he handed me a clipboard and a set of keys to a Ford Explorer that needed a new belt, I realized I could never, ever bring Corabelle around here. Mario had found my preference for hookers hilarious and brag worthy, so he’d been talking about it ever since the night one of my regular girls showed up at the pool hall. Lorali. She made a show of stripping half-naked in the corner of the bar to get me to take her home. Which I had.

The story became legendary at the garage, and for a while, a grainy print of Mario’s cell-phone snapshot of Lorali had been tacked up in the break room, her wearing only a tiny red bra and a matching thong with her denim skirt halfway down to her knees.

But this wasn’t one of those secrets Corabelle ever had to know about. That was behind me, as of right now, and hell, if it meant I had to keep her out of the garage or find a new place to work, I’d do it. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be too understanding, even if I could find a way to explain it.

I wanted to text her right away but figured waiting was better since she seemed a little torn up about what happened. She said she needed to get used to the idea. I’d give her some time.

The Explorer rolled easily into the bay. When I got out, Mario strutted by with a red oil rag tied around his chest and another making a triangle over his crotch. “Oh, Gavin!” he said in falsetto. “Oh oh oh, just another fiver and I’ll scream loud enough to make your neighbors jealous!”

I shook my head and popped the hood of the Explorer. I unhooked the battery, still watching Mario in my peripheral vision. He pranced around, pulling off the rags like it was a scarf dance. I wanted to tell him this one was for real, but I didn’t feel like sharing Corabelle. The whole night still seemed like a magic-carpet ride.

I moved on to the intake hose assembly, but Mario wouldn’t let it ride, taking the rag and draping it over my head.

Bud crossed through the garage. “Boy, ain’t you got something better to do than give Gavin a piss-poor burlesque show?”

Mario tossed the other rag at me and moved on toward the storage room, still laughing. “Sure thing, boss.”

“You got a handle on this one?” Bud asked, leaning on the frame and peering into the motor.

“Easy job.” I pushed the fat hose out of the way and reached down for the serpentine belt. “You got a 3/8 ratchet on you?”

Bud turned around and snatched the tool from the rolling chest stationed between the bays. “You seem to have this under control.” He clapped me on the shoulder and cut on through the garage.

I didn’t realize I was tense until he moved out of sight and my shoulders dropped down half a mile. Bud still hadn’t said anything about moving me up, just kept handing me keys rather than keeping me up front, taking oil changes and tire repair jobs.

Saturday was my late and long. I arrived after the early morning rush but hung out until the last car was off the lot. Still, we locked up at six, so I had plenty of time to go home and think about what I’d say to Corabelle when I called.

After two tune-ups, one belt tightening, and a brake job, I was ready to go home. I debated waiting until I was alone to call Corabelle proper, but I turned chicken, so I copped out by sending a text message instead.

Can I see you?

Waiting for a reply was agonizing, and I wished I’d just called. She might not see the message for hours, or she might not reply, ever. I raced home and checked again. Still nothing. After another ten minutes of painful waiting, I jumped in the shower.

I wasn’t fully dry when I snatched the phone up again. She’d written back, and my stomach hit the floor.

I don’t think so. Not yet. It’s hard.

I wanted to throw the damn thing. I could go over there anyway, make her see me. I knew all the right buttons. I wanted to push every one. I’d just gotten started. We’d been crazy in high school, but last night. That was a whole ’nother level. Damn. I couldn’t stand it.

The room was still littered with barbells and I considered another workout. But no, I should get out, do something. Mario had been an ass earlier, but shooting pool was better than hanging out here and waiting for Corabelle to change her mind.

•*´`*•*´`*•

A group of guys roared with laughter from the back corner as I tried to concentrate on getting the nine ball in the right corner pocket. My patience was wearing thin, and Mario watched me warily as he lifted a bottle to his lips. “Never saw a man so worked up over a piece like you are tonight,” he said. “She raise her rates?”

The ribbing had gone on the whole night. My credit card must have been maxed out. I didn’t get my two for the price of one. On and on. When this game ended, I intended to call it a night. I’d rather lie around obsessing about Corabelle than deal with this.

My game was off. I smacked the cue but got a whole lotta nothin’.

“Looks like somebody needs a stripper in his corner,” Mario said.

I backed away from the table and perched on a stool, picking up my glass of beer, which had gotten warm. My fury was rising and everything in me tried to push it back down. This was the bullshit my dad had pulled, getting all worked up until BOOM, he was set off. What was this genetic thing that made me just like him, even though I hated it? Maybe I learned from the best.

Mario leaned over the table and I thought about what the night would be like with Corabelle here instead. She’d smile at me — I’d get her smiling again — and lean over the rack, a stick in her hand, face all screwed up in concentration. Her shirt would hang a little low, and her white bra would sort of glow from the light overhead, that sweet bit of cleavage just a shadow.

“Hey, Gavin, snap out of it!” Mario whacked me on the leg with his cue stick, and I caught myself just before I would have hurled my glass at him.

“I’m done here.” I shoved my stick onto the wall rack.

“What? It’s like nine o’clock! And I’m kicking your ass in the game.”

“Not feeling it.”

“It’s some girl, isn’t it? Not one of your hookers. A real girl.”

“Right. Because the others aren’t real girls.”

Mario dropped his stick on the table. “You know what I mean.”

I didn’t feel like telling him anything. “I’m going to head out.”

Two girls ran up to our table. “Are you leaving?” asked a blonde with the shortest skirt imaginable. “Can we have your balls?”

I could tell Mario was about to say something stupid, so I jetted through the crowd and toward the door. I had no interest in the women, or in Mario’s fumbling attempt to chat them up.