33
February
Mom left on a Tuesday. I remember because Tuesdays were taco night and Dad and I to this day don’t eat tacos. Also because that was the night I fell out of love with Sean Addison.
Winter was old and wheezing by late February. The lingering chill in the air still bit at my skin after sunset, making it hard to remember that in a few months it’d be hot enough for the soles of my sneakers to stick to the asphalt.
Tourists from back East flocked to Arizona during the winter months, so the snowbirds, as we called them, were still thick on the roads and in Dad’s auto shop. I’d personally changed enough oil that winter to fill a swimming pool, and that particular Tuesday was no different. I was drowning in motor oil. The plastic smell of it clung to my hair and coated my lungs when I inhaled. My red coveralls were smeared with the same greasy stains that turned my hands that ineffable shade of zombie gray.
But all of that was okay, because I could change oil in my sleep, which left me free to dream about the only thing I’d ever truly wanted: a 1967 Triumph Spitfire Mark III convertible with Sean Addison riding shotgun.
The sports car I’d wanted ever since I had helped my dad rebuild one when I was eight. It was creamy white with tan leather seats and the original chrome bumpers (which federal safety regulations didn’t allow on later models). The budding mechanic in me had swooned over the one-piece front end that tilted forward for unparalleled engine access, and the exhaust that sang like a siren to my ears. I’d been saving to buy my own for the past eight years.
The boy I’d wanted from the first day of kindergarten. He took in my coveralls—which I insisted on wearing everywhere back then—and instead of teasing me like the other kids, asked me if I could fix the tire on his fire engine. As we got older, I started liking him for more than his good taste in mechanics. Beyond the fact that his eyes were the exact shade of my favorite blue jeans, he could always tell when I needed to laugh after a night spent listening to my parents fighting. Sure, Sean was more likely to high-five me than kiss me these days, but I planned on fixing that.
“Jill?” Dad’s voice echoed around the garage bay and stalled my car-and-boy-fueled daydream.
“Under the white Civic.” I rolled out on my creeper, sat up and spun to face him in a way that still made me grin like a four-year-old. I didn’t even mind that the momentum made my dark blond braid slap me in the face.
Dad and I had been nearly the same height for the past year, but what he lacked in height he made up for in girth—and not an ounce of it fat. He could lift a midsize car with his bare hands. He used to joke that that was how he’d gotten Mom to marry him.
Dad was already pointing over his shoulder, but I cut him off, a premonition making me narrow my eyes. “If it’s another oil change, I’m calling Child Protective Services.”
Dad considered me. I was half serious, which made him smile. “How about a clogged fuel intake—”
“Deal.” I’d reek of gasoline by the time I was done, but it’d be a welcome change from motor oil. Plus I happened to like the smell of gasoline. I scrambled to my feet.
“—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
