Work Me Up

“I feel like…” Selena stops. Hesitates. The way she’s lying, with her head against my chest, I can feel the vibration of her voice all through my ribcage when she speaks. “This is the first time I’ve felt like I can really breathe easily. Like my whole body is lighter, because…” She pauses. Chews on her lower lip for a moment, deep in thought. Then her gaze flicks to mine, shining in the dim light. “Like I finally know that I’m out of limbo. Ready to start moving, start living again.”

I smile, my eyes locked on hers. “I know the feeling, Selena. Any future with you, though? It will be all movement, all adventure. Just like the last few weeks have been.” I tangle one hand in her hair, use my free arm to hug her more tightly against me. “Whatever happens, I promise you, we’ll never stall out again. We’ve got a real future together, me and you. We’ll speed toward it together.”

15

Selena

One Year Later

“What do you think?” I glance across the gear shift at Antonio in the passenger seat. “Top down?”

He grins back at me, his expression relaxed, his limbs loose where he has one knee kicked up over the other, sprawled back in his seat. “Top down,” he agrees.

I lean over to the dash and depress the button that opens up the automatic roof of my convertible. That’s right. My convertible.

I spent the last year working with Antonio in the garage. I would have done it for free, but he insisted that I’m better than most paid assistants he’s ever worked with, so he’s going to pay me a fair salary for my work. That, along with my odd teaching gigs and part-time jobs that I’d been using the pay my rent, combined to earn me a decent income of my own, for the first time in my life. I used the money to purchase my very own car. A hot pink vintage convertible.

Or, at least, it’s hot pink now. I’m not actually rich or anything, so the car I actually bought was pretty run-down, a real fixer-upper, as Antonio likes to say. I got it at auction from a guy who figured it would never run again. But with Antonio’s help, and a lot of practice — not to mention some investments in really specific engine parts that it took me months in some cases to hunt down — I finally got her up and running.

Then all she needed to finish her off was a paint job, which I applied liberally in this case. Antonio laughed and called me a dork — his favorite term of endearment — when I insisted on painting the car hot pink. But I wasn’t about to let my very first set of my own wheels be some lame color like black or gray.

The top finishes whirring off, which makes the breeze from the highway pick up my hair and fling it around my face in circles. I peer over the tops of my sunglasses at the wide open road ahead, a bright smile spreading across my face.

Antonio and I have been working so hard over the last year. Antonio got a bunch of new customers from my dad. Even more than he met at my father’s party, in fact, once we told my parents that we’d started dating. At first I could tell my dad was a little uncertain about me dating a mechanic, but after a couple of semi-awkward family suppers, Dad realized how great Antonio is. And moreover, how great he is for me.

I suspect Mom had a big hand in getting Dad on board too. I’m pretty sure she’s been shipping us ever since the very beginning, back when Antonio first stopped by the house to ask about me because he was worried after I stormed out of the garage. Mom would develop a soft spot for any guy who looked after me that well. And nobody looks after me quite like Antonio does, that’s for damn sure.

Which is why I decided to reward him for once. Unbeknownst to him, I called in a few favors with some of the other auto shop owners around. Friends in the industry who Antonio trusts, even though they don’t work with him directly, usually. I convinced them to cover for us for the next week.

Little does Antonio know, though. I did it all in secret, planned around our big one year anniversary tomorrow. He just thinks we’re on a long drive up the PCH to enjoy the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been having this week. He doesn’t know I snuck both of our suitcases into the trunk.

Antonio reaches over to turn up the song that’s playing, one of my favorite pop songs, which I got him addicted to after a few thousand repetitions on the garage speakers. He always pretends to complain, but I know he secretly loves the music, too. Or at least, loves me enough to pretend he loves it.