I look inside at the fried motor that’s expelling fumes of burnt oil, and back at her. I know her too well to sympathize with this situation. One thing obviously hasn’t changed.
“What is it with you and owning piece of shit cars?” I ask her, looking into her eyes.
“Ssh,” she says and covers her lips with one finger. She rubs the fender like she’s stroking an animal’s head. “He can hear you.” She looks down at the singed engine with concern. “Someone has to love him,” she says.
“Cars aren’t dogs, Dylan,” I inform her. “They don’t have abandonment issues.”
She just blinks back at me like she never considered this.
“They’re meant to be safe and reliable,” I state, two words that probably don’t exist in her vocabulary.
Dylan smiles and lifts the bottom of her white t-shirt to wipe off sweat dripping down her forehead. I can’t help but notice her bare stomach and it gives me a momentary brain lapse. Her skin has always had that affect on me. A fifteen-month separation might erase some feelings, even memories, but you can never erase that unstable, uncontrollable, unexplained phenomenon called attraction.
“I always thought interior lighting was the most important car feature,” she tells me. “Ambiance is critical. This one has red interior lights. It’s like Christmas every day.”
I look at her messy pigtails.
“When did you chop off your hair?” I ask, since the last time I saw her, it fell halfway down her back.
She grabs a pigtail between her fingers and examines the choppy end of it. “After you White-Fanged me in Albuquerque,” she says.
I lean in close enough to see the blue, brown and green swirls that swim in her eyes. Her eyes meet mine and a chill runs down my back, even in the sauna-like heat of the late summer day.
“After I what?” I ask and a voice interrupts us, calling out my name. I spin around and Rachel is standing on the curb next to the restaurant entrace, regarding each of us with interest. She adjusts the yellow cardigan open over her navy blue sundress. Her light brown hair is parted on the side and pulled back in a low ponytail.
“There you are. They seated us inside,” she says to me. She looks curiously at Dylan who is looking at her and they both turn and look at me. I connect an awkward triangle of stares. Behind Rachel is the entrance to The Palm Tree Cafe. I’m still wondering who decided to name a restaurant in Omaha after a tree that would never naturally grow here.
“Rachel, this is Dylan,” I say as she walks up to us.
Dylan reaches out her dirty hand. Her long, skinny fingers look like they were soaked in black grease. Rachel extends her own clean, small, manicured one. If hands express any sign of personality characteristics, these two are complete opposite. Dylan grabs Rachel’s hand in a firm hold and gives it one solid pump, her signature shake. Rachel takes her hand away and examines the track of gray fingerprints pressed on her skin like stamps. She rubs her hands together and studies Dylan.
“How do you two know each other?” Rachel asks.
“We…,” my voice trails off because our past is as easy to summarize as the plotline to a TV drama. I look at Dylan for help and she takes care of making the introductions.
“I met Gray in Phoenix a few years ago,” she explains. “We’re old friends. My car just died, and I’m trying to get to Flagstaff.”
“Flagstaff?” Rachel says and my heart pinches in my chest. Oh, no. Don’t say it.
“Well, Gray’s on his way back to Phoenix today.” She turns to me and smiles like she solved all of our problems—not started them. “You can give her a ride.”
I clear my throat, trying to loosen a knot of tightening nerves.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. We, no…,” Dylan blunders and then she stalls and looks at me to gauge my reaction. I have to remind myself to breath. A shallow stream of hot hair squeezes through my throat. I swear I’m having a panic attack.
“I’m sure there’s a bus,” Dylan offers, and I nod enthusiastically. Yes, a bus, or a plane, or a hot air balloon, or she can roller skate there for all I care. That girl is not getting inside my car. It’s my one safe place. It’s my zone of tranquility.
“Seriously,” Rachel encourages us. “You can split gas money and trade off driving shifts. It’s perfect.” She gives me a confident nod. “We’d feel better knowing you were driving with someone,” she tells me.
I laugh, a sort of choking sound. It brings my voice back.
“Why are you going to Arizona?” I demand to Dylan.
Her constant smile flattens at the corners. “There’s a family emergency,” she says. She studies my eyes, the hostility behind them, and understands what I’m not saying. “But don’t worry about it. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”