So I’m all working on this really sweet 2005 Buell Firebolt XB12R bike which I’m totally gonna get painted candy apple red when I’m finished but anyway, I’m there in the garage. I got the station tuned to 105.2 Oldies because it just helps me think or whatever. Wrench in hand, the best jam for tuning a bike comes on. Normally, I’m not much of a singer but I figure, ‘what the heck, no one’s around’. So I bust out into the chorus of “It’s Not Unusual to Be Loved By Anyone” by Tom Jones (not like I actually knew that off the top of my head or anything, it was just announced before the song came on) and if I have any say in the matter, it’s sounding pretty damn good. I’m no Sinatra but I’m so close, it’s scary. Okay, okay, well it’s more like just scary but again, I’m alone.

I lean down next to the bike just as I let out a real doozey only to hear giggling from behind me.

“Didn’t know you wanted to be a professional singer, Nate,” said a voice.

My eyes grope for the clock and all I see is the small hand pummeling the large three. So she’s right on time and I’m left looking the fool.

The wrench pries itself from my hand, too cool to be seen with such an idiot, just as Ivy walks around the corner of the garage. It lands hard on my foot and hurts like all hell but, of course, I decide to keep a smile plastered to my face like an addict who just got their fix.

“You gonna talk or did you waste all your air on that last note?” she asks, stepping into my domain.

Speak damn it! My brain keeps yelling at my mouth but I can’t seem to get it together for an eternity.

“Uh, what are you doing here?”

Cleverest thing ever! She only comes over here everyday at three to do God-knows-what while I trip all over myself to get a word in.

“Coming to see you, but I could go--”

“--No, no.” I interrupt too eagerly.

Like its hardwired into me, I’m starin’ at her all open mouthed. That spiky red hair is flipped out on every end today and the dark eyeliner is accentuating her honey colored eyes. She’s got those awesome pair of boots on, the type that even a bike’d have trouble tearing into, that reach right up to her knees and torn jeans already dirty from abuse. Oddly enough, she paired all these things with a white t-shirt that clung too close to her body for my own good. She said one time about white being way more original than black and something about creation. Her skirt was too short that day for me to remember much else.

“So what’s up then?” she asks.

I leaned over just as her feet came into view. We both went for my fallen comrade at the same time, but I snatched my hand away before we could touch.

“The usual,” I mumble.

“Looking for this?” she asks, holding out the dirty tool.

My fingers ready to burst off my hand from the nerves rising in my throat, I reach out for the tool. As our hands meet, hers are real cool and welcoming after the Florida heat. Wrapping my fingers ‘round the tool, I bring it back to me, not without noticing the oil stain I left on her pale skin.

She deserves better.

I turn my face away in a flurry before she can see the burn that attacks my cheeks.

“So how long ‘til you’re finished with this one?” she asks.

“Not too much longer now,” I answer, really hopin’ she’s not looking at me through her eyelashes.

“That’s good.” Her voice lingers in the air, slapping me in the face with the intelligence behind it.

A glance behind reveals her sittin’ down, her head propped up on her knees. Every time she blinks, it’s like the wind from her eyes closing is yelling for me to make my move. Four weeks of this now, a whole month, and I’ve not been able to stomach up the courage. I’m surprised she’s still wasting her time.

I take a deep breath, turning to use the bike as a crutch as I stand up to release the tension that’s building to a boiling point. When I turn back around, she’s right there, level with me.

Without a word, she’s on her tiptoes, hand around my neck and lips pressed to mine like she’s trying to take back a piece of my gum I stole or whatever. My body goes tense and I can’t make my mouth move back in the rhythm she’s keeping. I’m not even on the same playing field. She pulls away slightly to stare into my wide eyes. No, I didn’t just see my father get run-over even though that’s the only situation where the face I was makin’ was appropriate.

She smiles because I’m a fool or because she’s insane enough to fall for one.

“Just wanted to see what that was like,” she says, walking over to my tool bench, letting her fingertips run across my chin on the way.

I clear my throat. “And?” It’s still hoarse.

She shrugs. “Different than I thought.”

I choke on air. Smooth, right? “Different good or different bad?”

“I dunno,” she says thoughtfully. “I’ll probably have to run a few more tests before I can decide.”