Abigail Johnson - If I Fix You

“—and an oil change.”

I sank back down and cocked my head at him. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding or if you just hate me.”

Dad tossed me a screwdriver.

“So the latter, then.”

Dad was halfway across the bay when he turned back in a much-too-casual-to-be-casual way. “Oh, did I mention it’s a ’69 Plymouth Road Runner?”

That caught my attention. Big-time. Dad knew I had a weakness for muscle cars. “Seriously? Does it have the beep-beep horn?”

Dad shrugged. “Are you willing to get your hands dirty to find out?”

I held up my hands. “Dad.” I needed to say only that one word. The telltale line of grease was visible underneath all ten of my fingernails. It would take a solid twenty minutes of scrubbing to get it out, and weariness beat vanity most nights. Dad didn’t even bother anymore. Drove Mom nuts. At dinner she’d stare at the pair of us over the table and make little comments about dirty hands. Never mind that it wasn’t dirt, just a little clean grease to show how hard we worked.

I’d spent my days at Dad’s auto shop every summer, and even some school nights, since I’d learned how to hold a wrench. Seriously, I knew how to change a tire before I could tie my shoes. Dad still had my first tiny pair of coveralls hanging in the main garage.

I wasn’t afraid to get my hands dirty, especially if it meant working on a true classic.

“Ragtop or hardtop?” I asked, hurrying to join Dad by the door.

He dropped a kiss on my head and ushered me ahead of him. “If it was a ragtop, I’d have sent you home early and kept her all to myself.”

“Sure you would.” Dad once took me out of school in the middle of chemistry class when we got a 1964 Shelby GT in the shop. Because he couldn’t wait two hours to show it to me.

“Should we order pizza, make it a night?”

As awesome as that sounded, Dad had obviously forgotten one important detail. “Last night you told Mom we’d be home early for dinner.”

Dad’s smile died. “You heard that?”

I curled my fist tighter around the screwdriver, hating the way his shoulders hunched when he felt like he’d let me down. Lately, they’d been fighting more. Sometimes Mom would be waiting for Dad at the door and would lay into him before he could get inside. The only semisolace I’d been able to find night after night was climbing out my window up to the roof, but even there I could hear them. Sometimes I’d swear she was trying to make him hate her.

Sometimes, I wondered why he didn’t.

Acting as a buffer between my parents was not high on my wish list, but I’d rather she snipe at me than yell at Dad again. “Do you want me...to call her?”

Dad shook his head, strong shoulders still hunched. I vowed silently not to give him any more grief about oil changes for at least the rest of the week. Hopefully, the inevitable blowup with Mom would have cooled in a few days.

Dad’s tight-lipped expression told me he wasn’t nearly as optimistic as I was.

“I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you finish up the Civic. We’ll start the Road Runner tomorrow.”

“As in Wile E. Coyote?”

Dad and I turned to see Sean come strolling into the garage. My mood skyrocketed at the sight of him. Yes, he was blue-eyed, blond-haired and all kinds of pretty, but he actually looked even better on the inside. It was the combination that brought that euphoric Christmas morning smile to my face.

“Little late for a walk-in, Sean.”

Sean was used to Dad’s less than warm demeanor—which I was going to optimistically attribute to fallout from having to call Mom—so he answered with a smile. “Hey, Mr. Whitaker. I was in the neighborhood, and Jill keeps offering to change my oil.”

My eyes closed slowly and I could feel Dad’s stare. It wasn’t like this particular cat was still in the bag, but Dad getting so much concrete proof of my crush felt like I’d gotten caught driving a Prius.

Fortunately for me, Sean didn’t notice the awkwardness and kept up an easy conversation with Dad. He even attempted to tell a car joke, which admittedly, did not go over well, but he still tried. That was the kind of friend he was.

I nearly dropped my screwdriver gazing at him.

Dad clapped his hands together, making me jump. “I tell you what, Sean, why don’t you show me your little Nazi buggy and I’ll check your oil.”

Sean cocked his head. “You know, I’m pretty sure the fine folks at Volkswagen decided the name ‘Nazi buggy’ was too regional when they released the Jetta.”

Dad shrugged. “It’s still not a real car. It’s like...”

“A neutered, asthmatic poodle?” I said.

“Whoa.” Sean slid a step back from me like I’d insulted his manhood.

Dad grinned as if proud that I still had my priorities in order when it came to boys and cars. “Then I’ll leave it to Jill.” Catching my eye as he left, Dad added, “Don’t let him distract you.”

My cheeks flushed. “I’ll get everything done.”

Sean watched Dad leave the garage and I headed to the slop sink to wash up. Well, that, and so Sean wouldn’t see the blush still heating my face.

Sean leaned against the wall to my left. “You like my Jetta.” It was half question, half statement.

“I like your Jetta—”

“Right? Right.”

“—I’d like it better if it went from zero to sixty in 3.5 seconds.”

“Does that mean you’re too cool to ride in it when you get off?”

I splashed water at him. “No.”

“Good, ’cause I’m starving.”

“Me too, but I’ve still got cars to finish, then I have to sweep and use the auto scrubber on the floor, and replace the ceiling light in the corner. On top of that, I need to grab a quick shower and change before we go anywhere.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sean held up his hands. “I can help with most of that, and I think you’re seriously underestimating how hot you look in a one-size-fits-all jumpsuit.”

I laughed. No one looked good in a one-size-fits-all jumpsuit, except maybe Mom. “Really, you want to help?”

Sean picked up a reciprocating saw and raised an eyebrow. I turned the handheld saw right side up in his hands. “I was testing you.”

“Sure you were.”

Sean eyed the rest of the equipment around him. “Maybe I’ll start with replacing the light.”

“Good call.” I pulled out a new bulb from a cabinet and offered it to him. “There’s a ladder in the closet.”

Sean looked toward the closet then back to me. “Too far.” He bent, wrapping his arms around my legs, and lifted me up, way up, considering I was already pretty tall and Sean made me look short. “I’m better than a ladder, right?” He gave me a bounce that had me clutching his hair.

“I swear, Sean, if you drop me...”

He grinned and bounced me again. “That’s your problem. You lack follow-through. If you’re going to threaten me, be specific.”

I switched out the bulb, shot the broken one into a nearby trash can and made a swish sound. “How’s that for follow-through?”

“Not bad.” Sean pulled his arm to one side and caught me around my back with the other, carrying me like the fireman he planned to be. The way he was smiling at me... I started to feel like Christmas morning. My arms tightened around his neck.

“Time to leave, Sean.”

Sean and I whipped our heads toward Dad. I hadn’t even noticed him come back. “He was helping me change the lightbulb.” I elbowed Sean, and he grunted before putting me down, then pointed to the light overhead.

“Yeah, but since I’m not paying either one of you to do that...”

“Are you offering me a job, Mr. Whitaker?” Then Sean elbowed me back, tickling me right between the ribs. “Jill, tell him what a mean ladder I make.”