Work Me Up

He arches an eyebrow. “You told me yesterday that you used to love driving when you were younger.”

Damn me and my stupid big mouth. Damn him for getting close enough to make me spill secrets like that. “Yeah, and then I told you I don’t anymore,” I reply slowly.

He crosses his arm. Tilts his head, peering at me like I’m the subject of some fascinating study he’s interested in learning more about. “You never did explain why.”

I tip my chin back so I can keep my gaze fixed on his, defiant. “I didn’t realize it was necessary for me to explain myself.”

He shakes his head a little, then, and his expression shifts from curious to sad. “You know, you could stand to let people in just a little bit, Selena.”

I flinch, then scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He keeps shaking his head, stepping back from me now. I feel the absence between us like a splash of cold water across my face, where his warmth used to be. “What’s the big secret?” he says. He reaches over to rest a palm on the hood of his car. “You’re a natural in the garage you know. One of the quickest studies I’ve ever worked with. And you clearly enjoy the job itself, as long as you don’t have to think of the puzzle pieces you’re working with as a car.” He raps his knuckles against the hood. They make a soft tinking sound against the metal. “But then you have to get into a working car, and,” he flings his hands in the air now, “you freak out.”

“I do not freak out.”

“Oh really?” He arches an eyebrow. “What do you call literally sprinting out of the garage two days ago, then?”

“That was unrelated.”

“And this morning on the drive here?” He crosses his arms and tilts his head again. But this time his stare feels like a challenge. One that I’m not sure I’m up to facing. “Why were you practically hyperventilating in the passenger seat? If you aren’t uncomfortable inside cars.”

“I just don’t like driving anymore, okay?”

“Why not? What happened?”

“Who says anything happened?” I take a step backward, but he mirrors me, until my back winds up pinned against the closed garage door of the shop.

“Because, people don’t just go from loving cars and driving — you said one of your favorite things to do was drive, you said that — to freaking out every time they need to be in one. And I don’t get why you can’t just trust me enough to tell me about it, or tell me anything, in fact. What are you so afraid of? Surely I’ve proven by now that I’m not going to laugh at you or insult you.”

“I never said you would,” I mumble.

“Yet you don’t trust me anyway,” he snaps.

“It’s not about trust. It’s just private.”

“Oh really?” He uncrosses his arms now, and leans in. “Because I’ve trusted you, Selena. I’ve trusted that you were being honest with me, when we started this…” He gestures between us. “Whatever it is we’re doing. But then I go over to your apartment, a place you seemed worried to have me in, and see all these photos of you everywhere with another guy…”

My stomach actually does a backflip now, and the nausea crawls up my throat. I try to speak, but when I open my mouth, no words come out. I can’t. I can’t talk about this, I can’t do this…

“Who is that?” Antonio asks, his voice pitched low, almost sweet, except for the worry in his eyes. The fear that he’s trying to hide. “Is he your boyfriend or something, Selena?”

“God.” I finally regain my tongue, and stumble sideways away from him. “You really think I’d…” I shake my head, like I’m trying to clear water from my ears. “You know what, Antonio, it’s none of your damn business, okay?”

“Selena, all I’m doing is trying to get you to open up more—”

“And why is that your job?” I spit. “You think you know me? You don’t know anything about me. What makes you think I want to open up to you?”

He flinches, hurt blooming in his expression.

I wince, too, but I turn my head so that he won’t see it. Damn it. I didn’t want to hurt him. But I don’t see why he has to keep prying, why he has to try to get to know things about me, things that I’d much rather keep hidden, not deal with. He started this fight. I shouldn’t feel guilty for finishing it.

“Are we done here?” I ask, my voice so soft that I’m surprised he can hear it.

But he must have been listening for me to say something. Because he replies, just as quietly. “Yeah. We’re done here, Selena. You told your father you would fix my car. And you’ve done it. Our deal is finished.”