No Perfect Hero(72)

“I want to draw Warren,” she proclaims firmly. “What kind of paper should I use for that?”

I blink. “Warren? I don’t know. Do you want to draw him in color, or black and white?”

“Black and white!” she says without a moment of hesitation, and nods sharply. “I looked it up on my phone. I want it to be in mon-o-chrome.” She sounds out the word carefully, like it’s the first time she’s saying it out loud. “Your boyfriend’s really dramatic, Auntie Hay. So I want his picture to be dramatic!”

I’m choked off from laughing at Tara calling Warren dramatic when that other word sinks in.

Boyfriend.

I start to splutter that he’s not, but I...

I don’t know what he is.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since he left me gasping and raw and hurting inside so deliciously, so sore and full and aching like we’d just fought for a prize we both ended up winning in the end.

We said no end date, but what are we doing? Are we dating? Is this exclusive?

Do we both agree this can’t go anywhere when one or both of us are leaving, or...do either of us think maybe, just maybe, plans could change? If this turns into more than just a few hot nights in tangled bedsheets?

God. Slow down.

Why am I even thinking about this after what was barely a one-night stand?

Maybe because one-night stands are strangers. And Warren’s not a stranger anymore. A stranger wouldn't run my ex out of town like a raging grizzly.

I don't realize I’d stumbled back from Tara until I suddenly bump into a wall display and an entire stand of craft beads goes crashing to the ground.

“Crap!” I yell out.

“Swear jar!” Tara pipes up, but I’m too busy scrambling to pick up the beads to tease her back. At least they’re all in bags. I’m still mortified and blushing and oh my God, what's wrong with me?

“Just help me,” I tell Tara. At least this gives me a chance to change the subject. “Before any of the bags pop open and we have to buy them. I can’t afford this whole rack and your sketchbook.”

“Not fair!” she complains. “You knocked it over, not me!”

“Life isn’t fair when your bank account’s empty, munchkin,” I point out. “C’mon.”

Sulkily, she crouches to help me. We manage to get the display upright and the little plastic bags back on the racks. To thank her – and apologize – I buy her both a big, thick hardbound sketchbook with softly textured paper that takes well to pencil and also an entire case of graphite drawing pencils.

She’s beaming as she lugs out a book that weighs almost as much as she does, and as we pile into the car, she opens the glossy faux-leather black cover and strokes the pages happily.

I’m content to take it slow through town with the top down.

We barely make it a few blocks before the Mustang gives a guttural little sputter and starts to slow down.

Not. The. Hell. Again.

Luckily, we’re near Stewart’s shop. I’ve been in a few times to check on that part, but it’s been taking longer than he expected to get it in.

Maybe I’ll get luckier today.

At the very least, my safety luck holds out long enough for me to send the Mustang coasting down the street on momentum and easing its giant land whale ass into the gravel of the parking lot of Pep-Pep-Go Auto.

I’m not really a big fan of the name, but the shop itself is understated and quiet and classy, stylized with the same lines as old classic fifties automobiles in muted colors.

Shining new parts gleam through the front windows, while the huge quadruple garage is open to the day, a few apprentices in greasy coveralls tinkering around with a beat-up Chevy and someone else’s brand-new BMW.

“Auntie Hay?” Tara finally seems to notice something is wrong, looking up from her book. “What happened?”

“The car’s just being silly again,” I say. “We’ll leave it with Mr. Stewart and call Warren to pick us up. Get your things together, okay, baby?”

“O-kaaaay.”

Even as I’m getting out of the car, Stewart’s already coming out to greet me, rubbing his brow.

He raises his hand and waves before brushing his messy, sandy-brown hair back with a dirty hand.

“Ms. West,” he drawls, even though I’ve told him a thousand times to call me Haley. At least it’s not sugar today. “Don’t tell me this beaut’s giving you trouble again?”

“I can't believe it either. Guess you were right about Warren’s hack job,” I say dryly. “She just tried to die on me in the middle of the street. Barely got her here. Hoping you’ve got that replacement carburetor in stock?”

“Not yet,” he says ruefully. “Only person I could find with an actual factory-new one instead of a worn-out, half-used part is overseas. It’s hung up in customs somewhere between Tokyo and Heart’s Edge.”

There it is again – that sense of fakeness.

I don’t know why it bothers me, why it makes the things he says seem false when it’s just perfectly ordinary conversation. He’d have no good reason to lie to me about a car part.

Maybe it’s just that Stewart’s guarded and closed off in his own way. He’s got history with Bress and Warren, too. Something about their military past, and something about being in the military makes men secretive even when it’s not necessary.