He asked questions along the way, but never interrupted, and I couldn’t believe how seamlessly I was engaging with him. That never happened to me. He stopped in front of a huge garage and poked the code in a big metal gate and drove through. I had no idea what we were doing in this part of the city or at this location, so I looked at him questioningly.

“How is car repair fun?”

He tsked at me and pulled the Charger up to one of the closed bay doors.

“I rebuilt this entire beast from the ground up. It was my saving grace back in the day. This car and Phil were pretty much the only things that kept me out of jail. It was how I figured out there were more productive ways to spend my time than getting in trouble and trying to get a reaction out of my mom. Phil told me that I needed a classic, something that would last the test of time. He told me if I took care of it, babied it, loved it, that it would do the same for me. I realize now he was trying to teach me about more than cars. He helped me pull it out of a junkyard and we spent years making it into the beast it is now.”

He got out of the car and punched in another code on another electric keypad, and the big bay door started to roll up. The garage was dark and intimidating at first glance, but as he pulled the car in, the headlights danced across a bunch of old cars in various stages of repair. It clearly wasn’t just a garage but a custom car shop.

“My buddy Wheeler owns this place. He helps me out with the Charger when I need him to and we trade out work. He lets me use the paint shop occasionally.”

I couldn’t help but lift an eyebrow. “A car guy named Wheeler? Really?”

He laughed and got out of the car. He reached behind the seat and pulled out a black bag and a roll of something I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“His first name is Hudsen, and who are you to talk? You’re a nurse named Saint.”

He handed me the rolled-up bundle and I noticed that it was paper. I had no idea what we were doing and told him as much.

He just took my other hand and we navigated the cars and toolboxes to the back of the shop, where there was a sealed-off room. He turned on more lights and smirked at me. His eyes were glittering with violet threads of merriment. I bit back a sigh. Really I could just stare at him all day and be happy.

“Back in the day I used to take a bunch of spray paint out and go tag a bunch of stuff to blow off steam. I thought it was cool to break the law, to leave my mark all over the city, until I got busted and Phil had to pay a huge-ass fine to keep me out of jail. That was how I got into art, into design. Really I think I wanted to get busted doing something illegal so my mom would have to deal with me, but that’s neither here nor there anymore and it’s still fun to paint with cans.”

We went into the room that was all white, had a crazy ventilation system, and had ventilators for breathing hanging on the wall and a bunch of stuff that was obviously used to paint cars in it. Nash tossed the bag on the floor and now I could hear the cans of paint inside it roll around together. He took the paper out of my hands and walked over to one of the walls that had a wire hanging from it and a bunch of metal clips.

“I can’t go out and paint walls, buildings, or trains anymore, at least not unless I’m getting paid to do it, but graffiti is fun. It’s bright and wild, there are no rules, and after tattooing stuff for other people all day, sometimes I need a change of pace. It’s nice just to get out and do my own thing, remember my own style. Wheeler lets me set up in here. No mess, no vandalism charges, and it’s always pretty fun.”

I watched as he hung up two pieces of paper that were almost as tall as me and about as wide as a door. He crouched down to start taking the multitude of paint cans in all the colors in the rainbow out of the bag. I had never had someone let me in on one of their own little rituals before, never was close enough to anyone for that. There was the pull he had on me acting up again.

“I can’t even draw a stick figure, Nash.” He was a professional artist, for goodness’ sake, how was I supposed to be comfortable even playing around with that kind of skill level and talent judging me?

He grumbled something under his breath and crammed a black baseball hat that was in the bag on his head backward. It was a good look for him.

“Saint, not everything is win or lose. We aren’t in competition with each other, we’re here to have fun and spend some time together without a bunch of noise and the outside bugging us. Just relax and let go.”

I took his word for it. I didn’t have a choice. I had missed him this week and wanted this time with him. I felt like he was giving me a peek inside the inner workings of his head. We stood side by side and considered the giant canvases. He started on his first, and before I even picked up one can of paint he had the entire background filled with swirling, primary colors that were bold and eye-catching. I couldn’t tell what he was doing, but it was fascinating and engaging to watch.

I bit the tip of my tongue and started Bob Ross–ing some happy little trees and clouds. Before I knew it, I forgot all about Nash, forgot I was in an auto body shop, and just started actually having fun. It was a lot easier than I ever remembered painting being. I added a rainbow, and then I needed a pot of gold. Of course, since I had a lopsided and runny pot of gold, I needed a leprechaun to go with it. By the time I was done, I was laughing so hard I had to hold my sides, but the paper was covered in a sloppy, drippy mess that no one would want, but it was hysterical to me, and when Nash looked over my shoulder at it and just tilted his head and squinted his eyes to try and make it out, it only made me laugh harder. This is why people kept telling me I needed to get out more. I couldn’t ever remember giggling so hard and unrestrained.

I stepped around him to look at the creation he had been working on and my laughter got trapped in my lungs. My jaw dropped open and I turned to him with gigantic eyes.

“Is that me?” I sounded like I was being strangled.

“Really? You have to ask?” His tone was humorous, but there was something else underlying it.

The picture he had created was a cartoon character, exaggerated and outrageous. The colors seemed to pop off the paper. It was a nurse in an outrageously sexy outfit, the kind girls wore for Halloween when they were on the prowl. She had wild red hair and was holding a cartoon syringe in one hand and a heart in the other. Despite the exaggerated proportions and obvious enhancements to make her shockingly sexy, she was me. The hair, the eyes, the face … all of it was me. How on earth had he done that in the twenty minutes we had been screwing around?

“It’s amazing.”

“I keep telling you that so are you. You just aren’t listening.” He moved to take the painting down and I reached out to stop him.

“Can I have it?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Of course.”

It was huge, I had no idea what I was going to do with it, but the idea that that was how he saw me … sexy, beautiful, and in control … I didn’t want to let it go.

“Nash, let’s go somewhere.”

“What do you mean? I was just gonna come back to your place with you if that was cool.”

I took the painting he offered me and hugged it to my chest.

“I never went on dates in high school, never had a guy try anything funny or get handsy so I could tell him to stop. I didn’t kiss my first boy until I was almost twenty years old. I want you to take me somewhere kids go to fool around. This was fun, and I haven’t really ever been the type to just let my hair down and have fun. I think parking with you in a car sounds like a blast.” It also sounded hot and sexy and would fulfill every teenage fantasy I had ever concocted that involved him.