denae :3 @denae0o0 - Tumblr Blog

May 22

stay cool, be somebody's fool - z.yf.

ོ ☼𓂃 she sees my good deeds, and she kisses them windy

☀ No one will tell you that on the summer of 2002, in a town on the west coast of southern California, your 1967 Shelby will break down. You'll end up going back to the same dusty auto repair shop all season to keep it running, and a boy your age will step out of the garage and offer to fix it. It is important that you say yes.

-> 💌 author’s note at the end! • PLAYLIST

The first sign should’ve come to you the moment your car gave out on the freeway.

It wasn’t objectively the safest place to stall out, with horns blaring around you like a road rage orchestra and cars speeding about while yours remained embarrassingly immobile. Eventually, a police officer took pity and helped tow it to a nearby shop in the city. The whole thing was all so suspiciously efficient, right up until the bill arrived, that is. And with another hit to your wallet, dinner plans with your friends dissolved into the expense of keeping your rust bucket running.

But you’d trade a piece of anything just to keep this car alive; hell, heaven, whatever fell on either side of that. A Ford Mustang, your 1967 Shelby baby. Anything.

Now, you weren't much of a car geek, but looking at it for the first time, you knew it looked too clean to pass up. And after a long stretch of convincing, it ended up waiting in your dad's garage on your eighteenth birthday. A parting gift, perhaps. Something to send you off to university with.

Somewhere along that line, you eventually forgot that ‘vintage’, more than it meant ‘valuable’, also meant it was old. And age came with wear no matter how well-kept.

“Honey,” Your mom began in that worried tone. “This is the third time this month that…thing has broken down.”

“I’m aware. I was there for all three events.”

From the other end of the kitchen, your sister perked up, suddenly useful. “I know a guy at an auto repair shop.”

To which you narrowed your eyes as you turned slowly to her. “You always know a guy.”

“Hey–”

“Okay,” Your dad cuts in, slicing clean through the escalating nonsense unfolding as breakfast was being prepared. He leaned back in his chair exhaustedly.

“I know we all enjoy whatever this is–” he gestured vaguely between your sister and you, “–but I’m tired of picking you up from random highways, Y/n.”

You opened your mouth to defend both yourself and your car’s honor, but he beat you to it.

“Get it fixed,” he said plainly. “Or I’m scrapping it.”

“Dad you can’t just do that–”

“I’m the one with the lease.”

Which is how you found yourself in what can only be described as ‘nothing’ in the middle of nowhere, a stretch of gravel bleeding into the highway far ahead, and a few tired trees doing their best under the blaring sun. But this is Old Town Temecula, so none of that felt particularly out of the ordinary, and so was this repair shop. If anything, you’d like to simply feel bad for it. The exterior looked a little worse for wear.

“Hello?” You called out from outside the doorway, because you’re not entirely convinced this place was still open for business. You leaned in slightly, scanning for any sign of life. An employee, a shadow, a western-style tumbleweed situation. Nothing.

You stepped forward and smacked the counterbell a little too enthusiastically.

“Whoever runs this place, you’ve got yourself a customer!”

Another beat of silence stretched out, and whatever optimism you had started closing in again. As you made plans to head right on home and tell your sister about how her ‘trusted location’ was in fact a sham, a door swung open and hit the wall with a loud bang.

“Hey, lady!”

When you turned back, you were met with the most wondrous sight.

Like a scene slipping into place, there’s a guy that steps out through the door, probably over your age. White tank, worn jeans, both marked by some dirt and the intense weather. His hands looked it too. A wrench was tucked into his back pocket, and a rag hung from the other. Your unhelpful brain starts pulling references and time frames from several vague films: small town swelter, an open garage, and the concept of some dreamy cowboy mechanic.

A hot guy in the hottest summer to date. The world must be running an experiment on me.

But you digress, because this guy was looking for a reply, and unfortunately, none of your internal commentary would be appropriate to say in polite conversation.

“Car givin’ you trouble, little miss?”

Little?

You briefly glanced around, just in case there'd been another designated “little miss” you somehow missed in the area. You realized he was referring to you.

“...Uh, yeah.” You said slowly. “Lots of it.”

He leaned against the doorway and gave you a once-over. Eyes dragging up, down, then landing back on yours again. What?

“Ain’t you something...”

“Huh?”

He straightened himself up and cleared his throat. “I said what kind of trouble?”

You’re fairly sure that was not what he said the first time, but you also definitely missed it, so you decided it’s safest to move forward.

“It keeps breaking down,” you explain. Then, as if that isn’t already self-explanatory, you add, “Not right now. But it will.”

He lets out a low hum, “Yeah?”

“Mmh hm.” You nodded. “Preferably whenever I’m driving on a highway.”

“I’ll take a look, see what I can do.” He jerked his chin toward the corner of the shop, at some cozy little lounging area. “Why don’t you sit down? Make yourself comfortable.”

Comfortable? Here with him? How ambitious.

You ended up on the sofa anyway, dropping with awkward commitment as you took in the surroundings of the shop. The place smelled like a hot spell, metal and tang, motor oil maybe, or grease. You looked around some more. At the mechanical parts lying around, at the tools hung on one wall, and then sometimes you’d let your eyes betray you at least once or twice, taking him in where he’d already be half-turned.

“You new here?” He asked.

“Kind of? My parents got a house here to get out of the city. It’s my first summer here, actually.”

““Figures. Haven't seen this one around much.”

You blinked. “My car?”

“Yeah. It’s hard to miss. Very vintage.” He rolled right out again and gave you a small grin as he sat up.

“It was a birthday gift.”

“Must've been a good one.”

“It is,” You clicked your tongue as you reminisce bitterly. “When it works.”

He crouched by your hood, his shirt riding up just enough for you to catch sight of the tools tucked into his jeans.

“I’ll get it to work.”

A nervous cough escaped you then as your eyes scrambled for anything else. Literally anything else will do, Y/n.

“You sound pretty sure.”

He shrugged as he reached for a wrench. “I’ve got time.”

You hadn’t even realized you’d been dozing off after that, right there on the old couch of a random repair shop of all places. Maybe it was the smell of oil and the heat rising making your head a little light, but you woke up a while later by a few pokes at your shoulder.

“Hey,” The guy’s voice reaches you through whatever heavy sleep you’ve sunken into. “Seize the day.”

You blinked slowly and let out a quiet yawn. “Sorry.”

“All good.” He’s standing over you, one hand half-lifted from where he’d been nudging. There’s a faint curve to his mouth, and you have an inkling feeling that he’s been watching you this whole time.

“Check it out.”

You step out the shop and into the stretch of sun waiting just beyond the little shade, rough ground crunching under your shoes as you make your way toward where your car had been left.

“So,” You circled the front, and half-expected it to look different somehow. You glanced back at James. “Is she gonna be ok?”

“She’s fine.” He leaned a shoulder against the side and folded his arms loosely over one another.

“But your fuel pump’s an old piece of crap. That’s what's been killing it on you.”

“I uh, I don’t…” Confused was what you were.

“It’s okay.” He said it a little softer this time. “Your car's not great.”

You huffed out a small, offended sound under your breath.

“It runs fine,” he reassured you, and gestured toward the engine. “But then it doesn’t get the fuel it needs. That’s why it's cutting out on you, especially when you’re driving for longer.”

“Is that why I’m always breaking down on the freeway?”

“Yeah.” He said, and popped the hood open. “Your carburetor’s not in the best shape either. It probably hasn’t been touched in a while. And your wiring’s a little off.”

He lifted a shoulder and added, “Nothing major, but it’s not helping.”

“Which means?”

“Which means, little lady,” He took a few steps toward you. “I can fix it. Just not today.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “How long will that take?”

“A couple days. Maybe three, depending if I have to order anything in.”

“I kinda need it,” You sighed, long and defeated. So much for being your group’s long-standing designated driver.

“Yeah. But it needs a makeover.”

You kicked a loose pebble across the gravel and watched it skid under a few tires like that'll somehow help you decide.

“And you’re sure you can fix it?”

“Have any doubts?” The guy tilted his head assuredly. “I’ll take care of it.”

You squinted at him a little. He squints back, in an effort to say what.

“Okay,” you muttered, you accepted. “Guess I’ll take the bus back.”

“Do you know your way home?”

“I’ve figured it out. ”

You really hadn’t, but you’re grown. You’re going to have to figure it out.

He promptly reached for his back pocket and pulled out a flip phone, jamming in a few buttons before holding it out to you.

“By the way. Could I get your number?”

Well, he’s certainly straightforward.

“Excuse me?”

He nudged the device toward you. “To call you when it’s finished.”

You mentally face-palmed yourself for, once again, reading way too much into this guy.

“Right.”

Once you’ve typed in your number, you bidded each other a short goodbye as you stepped out toward the highway, where the bus stop waits a little further down. James has to squint through the glasses he’d just pulled from his shirt to make sure you actually get on one. Only when the bus carries you off does he return to the counter, write up the bill, and tuck it into his pocket. He made a mental note to stop by the bank soon, preferably before his dad noticed something was off with the payment logs.

It occurred to him with no small degree of disbelief and embarrassment in himself that this might just be the first time he’s been so horrendously head over his own shoes. Stupid, stupid James.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

“Is your ice cream any good?”

“Take a lick of my ice cream and I’m dumping it on your face.”

“Sounds like a yes,” Haerin mutters.

The sun hung overhead in its usual tyrannical fashion, pressing summer into everything in sight. You and your friends have claimed an outdoor table, holding ice cream and smoothies sweating through heir plastic cups. Condensation slips down the side of yours, cool against your fingers before pooling in the little hollow of your palm

“Oh look. It’s the Power Rangers.”

You follow their line of sight across the street where the park unfurls toward the water in a long stretch of green and glittering blue. Parked along the grass is a truck, and a handful of guys leaned against it in varying states of practiced poses, draped there as though they had been arranged specifically for public viewing. Someone would take their turn holding the camera, and the other being a subject. You thought it looked ridiculous.

“A very managerless and underfunded boyband.”

“Are they trying to tan?”

There are five of them, sure enough, scattered around the truck with a sort of aimless patience. As your eyes move from one face to the next, your gaze snags on a familiar face, half-turned towards the water laughing at something one of them had said. The mechanic boy from the repair shop. The same one you had been eyeing up with all the subtlety of a Victorian man who’d just seen an exposed ankle.

You take one aggressive sip of your smoothie in the hopes that the brain freeze might cool your head.

You lean towards Haerin and jerk your head forward. “What’s that guy’s name?”

“Grey shirt?” She asks as she tries to follow your line of sight.

“Next to him.”

She paused, then whipped her head at you. “James?”

Ah, so his name was James. You turn it over in your mind once, then again, and several more times. It suited him. Something sturdy and unfairly appealing. You think it would look rather nice written in your handwriting somewhere, though you wisely keep that thought to yourself.

You shake your head and try to attempt the look of not caring, but achieve something considerably less convincing.

“Isn’t he a mechanic?” You asked and tried to sound absentminded about it.

“How’d you know that?”

“I brought my car to the shop to get it fixed.” That earns you a look.

“You seriously need to scrap that piece of junk,” Yunah says.

“Moving on.”

“Right. Well, he’s not technically a mechanic. His dad owns the shop, and during breaks he takes shifts there. I’ve seen him around the community college a few times. He’s got an engineering track.”

Mina added in, “He kinda keeps to himself.” She nodded towards their direction. “Those are his friends. They’ve all known each other since forever. Just like us.”

You look at them and think, sandbox love, a half-imagined and kind of shy concept for a group such as theirs.

Yunah cuts in. “Remember Hana? I heard she’s still as obsessed with him as ever.”

“Oh my god, yeah.” Mina laughs. “It’s kind of tragic. Does he even like her?”

A shrug from Haerin. “I don’t think he likes anyone.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like girls.”

“What a bold assumption.”

You’d still been looking even as your friends dissolved into their usual spiral of gossip beside you. Judge me all you want. It was a cute guy in the wild. That’s not a situation you simply can ignore. Whether you liked him or not had very little to do with it; staring was practically a reflex at this point. Something encoded deep in the inner workings of every girl who had come out the other side of puberty with functioning eyes.

Because you’re staring a little too intently, you started to notice things more clearly: his dark brown and slightly messy hair, the way he’s leaning back against the truck’s hood, and the subtle bop of his head keeping time with the music from a small boombox nearby.

You’re also able to make out how he turned his head upward, just slightly, before his gaze landed directly on you.

You’re fairly certain he might not even remember who you are. Why would he? You had been, in the grand scheme of his life, just one overheated girl with a broken car. He likely saw a dozen of those a week. Maybe two dozen, depending on what he looked like that day. It would be less embarrassing if he weren’t so aware of possessing a face. You knew he did, surely right?

So you keep looking anyway. Your eyes wander with an interest that could, in a court of law, be used against you. Even then, it felt like his eyes were tracking yours, following whatever it landed on. He shifts where he’s leaning, and though the distance between you is considerable, there is an unmistakable deliberation in his movement. A subtle squaring of his shoulder, the conscious vanity of a man who knows he’s being observed.

His expression seems to say, Well? The lack of concern on his end, and the complete drought of restraint on yours, was weird enough.

“Y/n, ready to go?”

Right then, the sound of your name yanks you clean out of whatever trance you’d been happily deteriorating in. All your friends are looking at you with varying levels of suspicion and delight.

You straighten so fast your straw nearly launches itself from your drink.

“I–yeah. Fuck yeah, let's go.”

An answer so immediate, so aggressively enthusiastic, that it condemns you on the spot.

“Why don’t you wipe the drool on your face first?”

Your hand flies instinctively to your mouth, which, to your immense relief, is perfectly dry. Mina bursts into laughter before you can even process the betrayal. You give Mina a small slap on the shoulder, to which she cackles in reply.

“Asshole”

You grab your cup as Mina loops her arm through yours, and when your group begins to head out and cross the street, you risk one last glance over your shoulder. James is looking too.

He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. You hate the way you wave back.

You were not drooling. This is one cornerstone belief. Because if you had been, then James might have seen it. And while he may be very alarmingly attractve for a man, you are not under any circumstances prepared to hand him that sort of satisfaction. No fucking way, dude.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You bump your hip against something metal the moment you step into the shop, and the sharp clang that follows has you muttering a curse beneath your breath. James had said three days, but it had taken a week before the call finally came. Longer than promised, sure, but you can’t exactly hold it against him. Your car in fact is a piece of scrap.

“James?” You called out as you step further in. “I’m back.”

A pair of boots appear from beneath the undercarriage of a car, followed shortly by James himself, rolling out on one of those little mechanic creepers. He pushed himself upright in one smooth motion and wipes his hands on a rag. There’s a streak of grease along his forearm, and another near his jaw.

“How’d you know my name?” he asks, squinting at you through the bright light pouring in from the garage door.

“Oh, y’know, people talk.”

His mouth tilted upward. “Been asking around about me?”

“No, stop that.” You pointed accusingly before he can get any smugger. “Is my car fixed or what?”

James laughed under his breath and tossed the rag onto the counter.

“A thank you would be nice.”

“For extending our business relationship by four whole days? No sir.”

He shook his head, though he’s still smiling, and gestured toward the far end of the garage where your car sat looking, somehow, the same and yet marginally less likely to explode.

“Here it is.”

You walked on over and ran a hand lightly along the hood as though greeting an old, troublesome friend. James follows close behind.

“Please,” he says, leaning against the driver’s side door, “try not to put too much force on the gas.”

“If I can’t do that, I might as well not use the car.”

“Not my fault it’s an old tinker.”

Then he tosses you the keys. “Try not to break it to soon.”

“Thanks James.”

You turn the keys over in your hand, the metal still warm from his palm. Funny, that observation. Metal shouldn’t be warm unless it’s been left in the sun or held onto for a while.

“Still don’t know where you got my name from.”

You offer him your most innocent look, which fools neither of you.

“Hm,” He narrowed his eyes, “Well, if your car’s all junked up again, come around, ‘kay?”

“I have a feeling it won't take long.”

“Lucky me, huh?” He gave you one of those cheeky grins/

You reached for your back pocket and pulled out your wallet.

“How much is it?”

He blinked.

“How much is what?”

“Cost of repair, James. How else do you people earn money?”

“Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking far less certain than a man who had spent the last week trying to resurrect your corpse of a vehicle.

“I haven't really thought about it.”

You stared at him blankly. “What.”

He laughed, a little sheepish now. “I’m not a licensed mechanic, my dad is. I don’t get a fixed professional fee like he does. Usually I’d just go with a gut feeling.”

“And is your gut currently giving you a feeling or…?”

“Yes. It’s telling me to defer payment.”

Yor fold our arms over one another.

“I can’t not pay you, James.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I literally can’t. That’s theft.”

“I think that’s just called generosity.”

You rummage through your purse and pull out the only cash you have: a slightly wrinkled ten-dollar bill.

“Here. Ten bucks.”

James looked at the bill, and then back ar you, somewhat deeply offended and amused.

“10 bucks for a car fix? You might as well just give me dirt.”

“Do you want my money or not?”

He plucks the bill from your fingers, stretching it out between two grease-stained hands.

“I don’t want your money. But I at least expected more of it.”

“Well, lower your standards.”

He folded the bill in a neat little rectangle. Before you could protest, or more importantly understand his intentions, he stepped closer. Far too close. His hand brushed your hip as he reached for the pocket of your jeans, and carefully tucked the bill inside. Oh, you were gone.

“It’s fine, alright?” His hand lingers for one treacherous second longer before he pulls away. And there was that crooked smile again.

“Maybe next time you'll come back here full of guilt, and that would be the perfect excuse to see you again.”

You blink at him slowly. “I don’t get it.”

He laughed, a quick startled sound, and then took a step backward as he made his way toward the back door. He wiped his hands on his pants, though there’d be nothing left on them now but the persisting feeling of your worn denim.

“I’ll see you around, Y/n.”

He turned away, but after one dreadful moment you freeze. Your mind, which had only just returned from a blackout, scrambled to catch up.

“Wait… hey–” You straighten so fast you nearly lose your balance. “How'd you know my name–?”

James paused with one hand on the doorknob. He glanced back over his shoulder, and the fluorescent lighting caught that unripe sheen in his eye.

“Oh y’know.”

He opened the door, stepping halfway through.

“People talk.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

After that, James seemed to migrate out of the garage and into the rest of your regular days with startling ease. This town seemed determined to place him directly in your little bubble, and you realized that summer didn’t so much follow your expectations as politely ignore them altogether.

It kicked off at the bowling alley, your friends claiming one lane, and just a few steps to the right, that cluster of guys. Included, unfortunately, was the one you had been putting in a heroic amount of effort to ignore.

Naturally, that effort lasted all of ten seconds.

With a focus usually reserved for something such as a life-altering decision, Juhoon stepped up, narrowed his eyes, and set the bowling ball down the lane. It rolled and rolled, and kept rolling, before slowly veering off into the gutter. Not a single pin moved.

A performance, really.

“Hey.” Haerin leans slightly over the divider as a laugh quickly slips through her words. “You know you’re supposed to hit the pins, right?”

Juhoon turns to her, caught somewhere between offended and amused, and wipes his hands on his jeans as if that might restore some of his dignity. “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of professionals.”

“Relax.” Mina shoots back and crosses her arms. “I’ve barely played this myself and somehow I don’t suck as bad.”

“You wanna talk big?” Keonho chimes in as he leans on their own divider as well. “Let’s see you do better.”

“You’re embarrassing us.” You murmured from behind. You’ve forgotten just how aggressively competitive Mina could get over something as low-stakes as this.

“Speak for yourself.” She shoots back under her breath. “You’ve barely picked up a ball.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you let your attention ease itself out. To your friends, to them, to the easy back and forth. And then, inevitably, to James, who is already coincidentally looking back. Creepy.

James looks back into the lane and clears his throat, then looks back at you again.

“So when will your turn be?”

“I don’t–” you start and step back a little too soon. “I’m just here to give some moral support.”

“Kill joy.” he says, not unkindly, and then gives you a smirk.

“That’s a strong accusation for someone who's been sitting in the back the whole time since he’s got here.”

“Have you been taking notes on me?”

“Maybe I should stick to seeing you just at the garage. You’d be less insufferable if you’re being helpful.”

James doesn’t pretend to stifle the laugh that escapes him, and it's a nice sound, you decide. He doesn’t pretend to look away either. Not when you catch him or when you raise a brow in slight accusation. He only tilts his head in a considerable fraction.

You break eye contact first. Out of principle. Out of principle, Y/n.

Your friend groups had merged into each other after that with surprising ease. A summer armistice, you called it, brokered over boredom and the simple fact that there were only so many interesting people in Old Town Temecula. They made things a lot more entertaining.

Martin was easy company because you both shared a lot of common interests, particularly where music was concerned. You could spend an entire afternoon arguing over discographies, and each of you were convinced the other had somehow missed a foundational pillar of modern music. He was insufferable about it.

Keonho and Seonghyeon quickly assumed the role of the two younger brothers you never had. They were a matched set of nuisances incapable of minding their own business. Still, you think of them with nothing but fondness.

Then there was Juhoon, who possessed the personality of a man who had lived at least three separate lives and remembered fragments of each. He’d tell you something utterly deranged yet weirdly profound on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday, and then wander off. He was your wise old uncle.

And then there’s James. You don’t know what he is to you.

Everyone else seemed to fit into your labeled mind drawers. Friend. Acquaintance. Enemy. Sometimes two, sometimes all.

You wouldn’t classify James as a friend. Friendship is like a tidy little house. You’d understand all its deep angles and know where the doors would lead. It wouldn’t usually contain that particular voltage. That’s right. Friends don’t prod at the electric fence just to watch it spark. Friends don’t test boundaries like that. Friends, generally speaking, also don’t flirt with each other.

And you cared, far too much, about what he thought of you too. You had become quite skilled at disguising your curiosity casually when you’d ask one of his friends, as though it had only just occurred to you, whether James had happened to mention you lately. Your name, taking up room in his mouth.

But acquaintances wouldn’t do either. That word was a handshake and a weather report, a polite distance, or a borrowed pen. You and James had long since trespassed beyond those borders. Whatever it was, it had sharp teeth.

And so you are left with the big question in the filing system of your life. If he wasn’t either, what other drawer could you possibly place him in? All these questions, and no one to answer them.

But your hypotheses soon had the opportunity of being tested.

The beach was hardly the most forgiving place for you and James to see each other.

But such were the circumstances that were so often stacked against you. The invite came with such spontaneity that you’d barely had enough time to throw a few beach essentials into your bag before there'd been a minivan already idling right across your house.

“You could’ve told me a lot earlier!” You shout from the front door, nearly tripping over yourself as you wrestle your sandals on.

“I texted you thirty minutes ago!” Mina screamed back. It was thirty minutes too short. Entire civilizations would rise and fall in the time Mina usually took to get ready, so you had assumed she, of all people, would understand the necessity of advance notice.

Then you spot James in the driver’s seat, window rolled down, and one arm draped lazily over the frame. He’s looking at you, actually looking, with an attention so direct it made you aware of every loose thread in your shorts and each misplaced hair on your head. You find yourself strapping your sandals much quicker than necessary.

The drive to the resort transpired in a blur of Top 20 hits and some terrible group singing. Martin sat beside you, knowing every lyric to every song that came on, while Seonghyeon and Keonho contributed mostly by banging on the roof and shouting the choruses at times. A car full of kids drinking deeply from the season while it was still theirs.

James didn’t say much during the ride. But every now and then, he would flick his eyes to the rearview mirror which had been angled just right, if only to catch you lost in song.

By the time you arrive, and everyone had hauled themselves, their bags, and half the contents of a convenience store into the resort, the sun was hanging low and golden over the water like it too had paid for a weekend stay.

The cottage sat right by the beach: bamboo walls, a tiny porch, and enough space to comfortably fit nine people. The door had barely swung open before Keonho burst out first with an overflowing paper bag to his chest.

“What’ve you got there?” you asked.

He angled the bag away immediately. “Get away.”

“You bought a dozen bags of chips.”

“The other ten are just emergency portions.”

“For what? The apocalypse?”

“The munchies.”

Seonghyeon came out next, already wearing an inflatable around his waist. It squeaked every time he moved.

“I can’t find my sunscreen.”

Haerin points to his hand. “Kid. It’s right there.”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand while his mouth formed a little ‘O’ shape.

Martin followed close by, dragging a boombox nearly as large as the minivan’s side windows. He hoisted it onto one shoulder with all the pride of a man unveiling a monument. Juhoon glanced over from where he was taking off his sandals.

“Y’know they charge a fee if you blast the music too loud, right?”

“What the fuck?” Martin froze.

“I didn’t ask my dad for extra money today!”

“Some employment would help,” James said from behind him as he carried in the cooler.

Martin gave James a side eye and a scoff. “I’m a teenager, James. I don’t need no goddamn job.”

“That mindset won’t pay them bills man.” Juhoon says, wise words from the wisest man.

“What fucking bills–”

Mina sidled up beside you with the intention of delegating some sort of responsibility. She pressed a few crumpled bills into your palm.

“Y/n, why don’t you go order us some drinks?”

“You got two minors present by the way.”

Mina waved a dismissive hand. “Get them some juice.”

“I could drink,” Keonho says with confidence. You turned to him and shook your head.

“I’m serious! I have the liver of a champion.”

“No.”

“I got a mature palate.”

“You have the face of a middle school mathlete, Keon. What’ll the staff think when they catch you? You’re getting juice.”

Keonho gave you a deflated stare. “You wanna be my mama so bad.”

“We’ll deal with you later.” Mina started counting on her fingers. “Two margaritas, a soda, one beer, juice, and some water.”

James emerged from… somewhere. He had changed into a loose shirt and swim trunks and glanced down toward the bar a little ways down the sand.

“Need some help with that?”

“Um. Yes. Thank you James.”

Mina’s grin was immediate. “Oh, perfect.”

You narrowed your eyes at her with suspicion. When you turned around, James tipped his head toward the little path leading to the bar tucked just beside the open restaurant.

“C’mon.”

So you fell into step beside him, your feet sinking into the sand as you passed the others who were still deep in argument.

“I’m not getting a summer job! I am seventeen! The only bill I have is my phone bill, and my mom still pays half.” Martin exclaims.

Juhoon raises an eyebrow. “Half?”

“You burden this society.” Seonghyeon accused Martin with a pointed finger.

“I am society.”

“Who are you, fuckin’ Jean Jacques Rousseau–you’re a leech.”

“You guys are just jealous because I’m young, beautiful, and unemployed.”

“Only two of those things are true.”

“You’re a dead man, Eom.”

As soon as you step on the polished wood and under the hanging lights, you are hit with the smell of grilled seafood, sizzling meat, garlic, butter, enough to crave eating your body weight in some shrimp. The two of you made your way to the counter, sliding onto a pair of barstools, and the bartender handed you each a laminated drink menu.

“You know,” you said after a moment of squinting, “a lot of these just sound like cleaning products.”

“That’s how you know they’re overpriced. Check this out. ‘Salted Breeze’.”

“‘Tropical Typhoon’? Jesus.” You turned the menu to show him. “Sounds like it could strip paint.”

“Sounds tasty.”

“Kidneys, James. People need those.”

“You only need one.”

A few feet away, hidden just enough to be out of sight, Martin, Haerin, and Keonho had claimed a suspiciously dense bush. From behind it, three heads barely fit in the same line as they all angled toward you and James.

“I can’t see shit,” Haerin muttered as she shifted uncomfortably.

“Move your giant head then.” Martin shot back.

“I have a normal-sized head.” She whispered defensively. “Your proportions, unfortunately…”

Keonho leaned in between them as he squinted hard. “I’ll have you know we’re committing several social etiquette crimes.”

“We’re just taking a look.”

“We’re stalking. If we were just looking we wouldn’t be hiding in a bush—hell, this itches.”

“Potato potahto.”

Keonho, who had insisted on bringing a bag of chips on the espionage mission, crinkled the packaging so loud it might’ve been able to alert a few wildlife nearby.

You and James sat at the bar, leaning against the counter while the bartender prepared your orders. The string lights above cast everything in warm gold, and from this distance, the two of you looked really cinematic.

“They’re talking,” Haerin reported.

“How groundbreaking.”

“Oh my god they’re laughing.”

“People do that, right?”

Keonho dapped Martin’s shoulder hard. “Ohhhh, James touched her arm.”

The entire bush shifted as everyone leaned forward at once, and Haerin had to grab Martin by the back of his shirt before he could topple out into the open.

At the bar, James said something that made you laugh. Your head even tipped back. Martin had to clutch his chest.

“He’s using jokes. Smooth bastard.”

“That’s usually how flirting works. I doubt you’d know any of that.” Haerin said.

Keonho, mouth full of barbecue chips, narrowed his eyes. “Do you think they’re gonna kiss guys?”

“Keon,” Martin said blankly. “They’re just ordering mojitos.”

“People have kissed over less.”

Haerin nodded in agreement. “That’s true. I see people make out on the bus every day. Like, over what? All you can smell are stinkin’ butts, and some people have died on that bus before.”

“What? I didn’t know this-”

“Wait wait–James is leaning in.”

James leaned closer to hear you over the music. Then the bartender handed him two drinks.

“False alarm.”

“I need a better angle.”

Before anyone could stop him, Martin rose approximately four inches too high. Unfortunately, four inches was all it took. James glanced over directly at the bush, and there was a beat of perfect silence after that. Then James slowly raised one eyebrow.

Martin ducked first. The rest followed in a panicked domino effect as the branches shook violently.

“We’ve been made,” Haerin announced.

Martin is quick to tap out. “Abort mission, holy fuck–”

“Retreat. Hurry, go!”

When you and James head back with a tray full of your orders, the three of the culprits were sitting on the porch in positions that bordered on performance art. Martin was whistling. Well, he was trying. Martin can’t whistle. Keonho was reading a magazine upside down, and Haerin still had leaves in her hair.

James handed out the drinks without a word, though the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously.

“Oh, Haerin. You got a uh…” You gesture vaguely at his head. “A few leaves on your hair.”

“Yeah. Keonho pushed me into a bush. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I did no such–”

Martin was quick to shush Keonho out, to which he let out a huff in turn.

A little while later, once Keonho and Seonghyeon had sprinted into the water, Martin was left holding down the fort on shore. He was halfway through his juice, still salty about the fact that none of them wanted to hand him a margarita, when James wandered over and stopped behind him.

“Great hiding place, by the way.”

Martin choked on his juice so violently that some of it shot out of his nose.

But eventually, no one cared enough to quarrel with the day. It was as gold and too open-handed for such a thing. The sun hung above like a coin freshly minted, bright enough to spend. The sea moved with its long and slow patience, folding salt into your skin, into hair, into the small seams of everyone else.

Troubles, those faithful little parasites, found the air too thin here, so they loosened their grip and drifted off like dandelion ash. And everyone was suddenly certain that this would be a day worth keeping.

James sat on a sunbed a few feet from the shoreline with his sunglasses on and his shirt loosely unbuttoned to give way to the warm air. To his left, a few children have taken Martin hostage, burying him in sand and shaping him in what looks like a poor interpretation of a mermaid sculpture. To his right, Keonho’s trying to drag Seonghyeon down from his floaty. And in front of him, further out where the water is a lot stiller, you’re laughing and splitting the sea into smaller pieces as you pass through it in a fit of laughter.

“Margarita?” Juhoon, who sits on the sunbed right beside him, passes him a glass.

“Thanks man.”

Summer. It was a come-and-go concept to James. It would always come with promises, stay just long enough to keep him waiting, then abdicate. A season of suspension. While everyone else seemed intent on breaking free, he mostly found himself idling. The engine would be on, but there would be nowhere worth driving. He’d wait for summer to bring him something, then he’d wait for it to end.

Summer was long. Summer was hot. Summer was sweat collecting at the base of the spine and sand in very weird places. Summer was–

“James! I caught a crab. Do you think we could cook it?” You shout from afar.

Summer had you in it this time. Then, summer was brief as a struck match. Warm against his stomach. Sweet, sour, salty. A fruit eaten too quickly, juice running down the wrist, and always never enough. All this heat had revealed skin and nerves, all the thin bright wires beneath the casing. The things he preferred not to feel at all, now lit up like a switchboard.

Summer has ruined the rest of the year for him.

James huffs out a laugh and looks back out into the beach where he can maybe pull some restraint. “Do anything you want.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You had texted James yesterday and asked if he’d seen a Walkman hanging around at the garage that you might’ve left. James checked, to which he did find one sitting idly at your spot on the couch. So he texted you back saying he’d bring it over the next day.

Which is how he ends up standing very chivalrously at your front door. Because this is also how he meets your father for the very first time.

“Good mornin’ Mr. L/n.” James looks around to further solidify his little act. “Lovely weather today, eh?”

Your dad narrows his eyes in what can only be close to disgust. “You’re Zhao’s son.”

“Did you sense some resemblence?” James gives your dad a charming smile. “Good eye there.”

“Don’t bullshit me, son. What the hell kind of business do you have here calling my daughter–”

“James?”

Your voice cuts through from all the way inside the house, and when you emerge from the front door, James internally sighs in relief and gives you a little wave.

“Sorry, I got your text a little late.” You look at James, and then suspiciously at your dad, who is looking sternly right at James.

“Dad? Is there a problem?”

He looks at you and points accusingly at James with shot eyes. “This boy standing on my front porch is what's the problem.”

James wants to laugh. He knows exactly why your dad doesn’t like him, and it had nothing to do with him at all. It comes with a silly memory: his own father coming home, holding up a fish like a trophy with a blue ribbon tied neatly around its still, unblinking body.

“He’s been fixing my car like you wanted. The least you could do is say thank you.” You scold.

“I am not saying thank you to one of Zhao’s kin–”

“Y’know what, it’s all good.” James cuts through the transpiring little argument. “I stopped by to give this. You forgot to grab it from the shop.”

He stretched his hand forward to lend you your Walkman back, and you take it in pretend formality. James looks back at your dad and offers another much more charming (he hopes) smile.

“You have a good day, Mr. L/n. Tell the missus I like the flower arrangements up front.”

He’s ready to head in and leave before this got any more awkward when he hears you say his name.

“Bye James.”

He turns around to steal another glance, and gives you a generous grin.

“Bye.”

When James leaves, you take your dad back inside and prepare to reprimand. So much were the roles reversed today.

You turn to him immediately. “What was that about?”

Your dad, already walking deeper into the house, grumbles. “Nothing.”

You follow him into the kitchen. “This Mr. Zhao… isn’t he the one who’s been beating you at those fishing competitions?”

“I bet you he’s cheating.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “All that rage for some petty contest.”

You both had to admit there was something almost absurd about this long-standing, entirely unearned fatherly feud. It was hilarious and stupid. What would be even funnier is if maybe, assuming a possibility, that they’d find out about this little thing happening between the two of you. This unsure predicament, a scandal in the eyes of two middle aged men. You want to laugh. You almost do, right there on the kitchen island.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

James receives a panicked call from you at three in the morning a few days later as he’s half-asleep, buried under the dull noise of his father and his friends still arguing over a game on the television.

“Somebody better be dying,” he mutters, voice dragged through sleep.

On the other end, your voice cuts through in whispered panic. “Yes. It’s my Shelby. She’s dying again, James. What am I gonna do?”

“You can bring it to the shop later.”

“I know. I was gonna do that anyway.”

He exhales into his pillow. “Then what’s the emergency?”

“You sure I shouldn’t just scrape this thing?” you ask with a suddenly unsure tone in your voice.

James opens one eye. “You’re thinking of killing her now?”

“She might as well be on life support.”

He closes his eyes again and lets out a sigh. There’s no denying your car really was a stubborn one.

“Bring her to the shop, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

You pause.

“We will?”

“Yes. Now can I go back to sleep?”

“Okay” You say through a small smile. “I’m trusting you James. Sleep tight.”

“Tight as a bug.” he replies as he’s already halfway gone. “Bye.”

Somewhere downstairs, the voice of a man is heard screaming in cheer. James buries his ears with his pillow and tries to go back to sleep.

A little past noon, James was out back giving his motorcycle some attention. He had a towel slung over one shoulder, grease staining the heel of his palm, and was halfway through polishing the handlebars when he heard an engine spitter its way into the lot. It was a very particular, familiar sputter.

He tossed the used rag onto the workbench and headed around to the front. Sure enough, there you were, climbing out of your car with a frustrated expression. You shut the door a little harder than necessary.

“I got her to work this morning,” You announce by way of greeting. “But I swear the engine’s making this weird noise.”

James circled the front, listening as the engine rattled in protest. “I heard it from the back. Did it break down again?”

“Just before I called you.”

James looked at you suspiciously. “Where were you off to at 3 in the morning?”

“My sister needed a ride home from a party.”

He popped the hood and propped it open. “‘Kay, I’ll take a look. You know the drill.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth as you headed inside. “I’ll take the couch.”

So you had, in fact, taken the couch.

There was something so deeply humbling about becoming a regular at an auto repair shop. It would tell people everything they needed to know: that your car was a piece of absolute shit from a butt. But at least the couch was comfy. That had to count for something.

You were halfway through a bag of stale chips and a quarter through a sports magazine when James pushed through the garage door, wiping his hands on his jeans and staining them in the process. His expression alone told you everything.

“How bad is she?”.

He looked like he bared bad news.

“It’s your alternator.”

You blinked silently. “My what?”

“Alternator. It keeps your battery charged while the engine’s running.”

“So… important.” You deduced.

“Very.”

“Love that.”

James huffed out a laugh and told you to follow him.

“The bearings are shot, see? That’s the noise.”

You slumped your shoulders forward. “Can you f ix it?”

“I can. I should be able to replace it.

The pause he made was a little ominous, so you probe further.

“But?”

“But we don’t have one in stock.” He clicks his tongue. “And a new one isn’t exactly cheap.”

“Define cheap.”

James named you a number, to which you nearly choked on your saliva.

“James, that is rent.”

He winced sympathetically. “Yeah. Such is the beauty of owning a car.”

“I didn’t even buy it myself. How am I supposed to afford that?” You turned back to walk toward the couch before slumping on it once more.

“I should’ve asked for a horse.”

“Maintenance is worse. My uncle’s got a ranch up south with horses. They shit big.”

You sighed long and hard. “Horses don’t need alternators though.”

“Didn’t I just tell you? They shit big. And they bite too.”

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the faint hum of the soda machine and the distant clanking something he had left on. James tapped his finger on his lap thoughtfully.

“But I might know a way around it.”

You lifted your head in desperation.

“How illegal are we talking?”

He put his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Moderately legal?”

“James.”

He gave you a mischievous grin.

“There’s a junkyard about twenty minutes from here. They got totaled cars in all the time. If we’re lucky, we can pull an alternator off something compatible.”

“Dude. Isn’t that stealing?”

“It’s cheaper. Wait no, it’s free.”

That, admittedly, was a compelling argument. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“And you know this place how?”

“I know a guy.”

Of course he knew a guy. You suspected a lot of these mechanic boys operated like they were part of a secret underground network. They know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy.

“You had me at free.”

James grabbed his dad’s truck keys off the wall while you stood from the couch. You followed him outside, both of you climbing into the truck and buckling in. Desperation was going to take you places today. He reversed out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, and you caught the sunlight glinting off the silver ring on his finger. Then you were off.

The drive was mostly filled with silence. The windows were down as the wind rushed in to occupy all the empty spaces. It threaded through the car, rifled your hair, and carried off any thoughts James was trying very hard not to have.

Outside, the road kept company with the town’s river, each pretending not to notice the other. You watched the water slide past in silver influxes as James watched you in the rearward pull of seconds. The wind would unmake your hair and remake it a little better. He found this, like many things he’s thought of, very compelling.

The junkyard was exactly just as you imagined.

Rows and rows of dead cars stretched beneath the afternoon sun, metal skeletons stacked two, sometimes three high, each one looking as junked up as the other. Windows were shattered, doors hung open, and somewhere in the distance, something metallic clanged with the ominous acoustics of a horror movie.

“People have gotten murdered here.”

“You got a strong feeling ‘bout that?”

“Absolutely.”

When you both got out of the truck, the air smelled like rust, hot rubber, and tetanus. A heavyset man behind a cluttered counter looked up from his newspaper as you approached. He wore a baseball cap that might once have been red.

James gave him a nod. “Afternoon, Rick.”

The guy, Rick, squinted over the rims of his glasses.

“James!” He exclaims excitedly. “You break another one?”

James jerked a thumb toward you and shook his head. “Not mine this time.”

You placed a hand over your chest and bowed. “Thrilled to be here.”

Rick snorted before bowing curtly at you in return, and waved the two of you through the gate.

“Imports are in row seven. Don’t steal anything that ain’t bolted down, yeah?”

“‘Course, Rick. We all know how that went last time.”

That was sketchy, you think. You followed James between towering rows of vehicles, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. Every few feet, James would glance at a car, dismiss it, and keep walking. He looked like a vulture on the lookout.

James stopped in front of an okay Mustang, and knew this particular model was manufactured just a few years before yours was. He figured it could work.

“There she is.”

James popped the hood of the car with ease, and you leaned in beside him, staring at an engine that looked, to your untrained eye, like just a bunch of metal scraps put together.

“So which one is it?”

He pointed. “That.”

You nodded solemnly as if you understood anything at all. James reached into the small bag you had brought and took out some kind of tool, and went to work.

You folded your arms and watched him. His brow gathered itself to the middle in concentration, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows, grease smudging dark against his knuckles. There was sweat clinging to all sorts of places. His temples, along the line of his throat, tracing the strong cords of his arms where the veins stood out with clarity.

It was incredibly rude of him to look that good in a junkyard.

“Hold this.”

He handed you a wrench, and you took it like he’d entrusted you with a sacred artifact. And so, under the blazing sun, you helped James steal (sorry, salvage) an organ from a dead car. Your week had taken a very strange turn.

After he gets the part off, you both make quick work of stuffing it into the bag before heading back toward the big gate again.

“Find everything you need?” Rick calls from where he idles.

“All good here Rick.” James replies. “You have a good one.”

A small nod, a mutual dismissal of the world, and you’re both back in motion. You toss the bag into the back of the truck, and James climbs in after you then turns the ignition. The engine makes a weird sound, but neither of you comment on it.

You’re on the road for a while, and nothing seems to be the problem. That is, until the engine coughs first. A small, offended sound. Then again, this time deeper. The truck shudders, and with dread on both your faces, it finally gives up and stops.

“James. What the hell.”

“I’ll go take a look.”

Both of you are out the truck in seconds. James lifts the hood and leans into it, and you watch from the side. He works in silence for a few minutes, which doesn’t really help the unease you’re feeling. He straightens eventually, and gives you the look.

“We’re fucked.”

That is how you both end up pushing the truck. Its wheels roll reluctantly, and you want to laugh at how utterly absurd this it. You both steer it into the nearest empty patch of land: an abandoned gas station’s parking lot.

There’s nothing for miles, you believe. No phone booth, no convenience store. Not even the promise of signal. You checked your cellular and couldn’t pick up on anything.

James calls you through a whistle. “Hey. Look at that.”

You walk over toward him and follow his line of sight. There, just a few meters ahead, is a sign, which tells you there must be some sort of establishment nearby.

“Let’s take our chances. It’s almost dawn.”

Because there are no better options or sudden miracles waiting in the wings, you head to the back of the truck and reach for the bag in case it gets snatched. James reaches into the dash, retrieves his wallet, and pockets it to the back along with his keys.. Then you walk. Side by side.

A motel is what awaited you.

You exhale, long and unamused. A motel. Of all places. In the middle of nowhere. Onl motorcycles are parked up front, which suggested everyone else came here alone. Everyone except you two.

“This sucks.” You say, staring up at the motel in quiet offense.

“Better than sleeping on a truck in an abandoned gas station.”

“I don’t even have any money on me right now.”

James takes out his wallet and waves it lightly in front of you. “Problem solved.”

You hated how this looked from the outside. A boy and a girl walking into a motel close to night time. The story is practically writing itself. But night is already closing in, and better ideas are not arriving soon. So when James walks first, you trail close behind.

The lobby was warmer than expected, and surprisingly clean. Not exactly luxurious, but as cozy as a motel in the middle of who knows where could offer: wood-paneled walls, a coffee machine humming quietly in the corner, a rack of brochures advertising attractions that looked suspiciously closed.

A woman sat behind the front desk, reading a magazine. She looked up as the two of you entered. James stepped forward while you wandered over to the little lounge area and sank into one of the couches.

“One room with two beds, please.”

The receptionist looked through some logbooks, then offered an unapologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, sir, but our double rooms are all occupied tonight.”

James nodded. “That’s fine. Two rooms, then.”

More checking of the logs. The receptionist’s smile grew somehow more apologetic.

“I do apologize, but we’re fully booked on singles as well.”

James blinked blankly. “…What do you have, then?”

She consulted with the papers on her desk.

“We currently have one queen room available.”

Silence.

From your spot on the couch, you suddenly found the complimentary pamphlets fascinating.

James turned slowly.

“Give me a moment.”

You spotted James making his way back across the lobby, and immediately straightened from your position on the couch.

“Are we good to go?”

James stopped in front of you, one hand hooked on his hip. He looked almost amused, which should have worried you more than it did.

“Y/n.” That was already a terrible start.

“What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“They have…” He paused, and then again. “It’s a room with one bed. That’s all they’ve got.”

You stared at him. Then at the receptionist. Then back at him.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Wish I wasn’t.”

Which was only partially true, and James knew it. Unfortunately, he also knew better than to examine that thought too closely. He mentally shoved it into a locked drawer and sat on it.

You stood so quickly the couch wheezed beneath you.

“All the other rooms are booked? This place looks like a shithole, how are they fully booked?”

“I don’t know. I’ll just take the floor, okay?”

“I can’t let you sleep on a motel carpet James. These things have organisms—“

Before you’re able to chime in another word, James turns around again and heads back to the to the receptionist. He pulls a couple dollar bills and slides them on the counter surface.

“We’ll take it.”

The receptionist slid the key across the counter with a smile. James took it, thanked her, and turned toward you, giving a slight tilt of his head.

“C’mon.”

You pushed yourself off the couch and trudged upstairs, and it creaked beneath your feet as the two of you climbed to the second floor. The motel hallway stretched long and narrow, lit by buzzing overhead lights that did very little to improve its already questionable atmosphere.

James found your room quickly enough. He stopped outside the door, key poised, then hesitated. When he turned to face you, the teasing had slipped from his expression.

“Okay. A few things.”

You nodded.

“If you ever feel uncomfortable at all about anything, just tell me.” The seriousness in his voice caught you off guard.

“I mean it,” he added. “I don’t want you pretending you’re fine about this. I get it, it’s weird. No walking on eggshells. Alright?”

You managed a small forced smile.

“Got it.”

“And another thing. Try not to head out alone too much tonight.”

He gestured toward the parking lot below. You leaned toward the small window just enough to spot those half a dozen motorcycles lined up beneath the flickering motel sign.

“A bunch of bikers are staying here. They’re in a group, I’d guess.”

“You say it like they’re a migrating species.”

“They usually are.”

You laughed as he rested one shoulder against the doorframe.

“Make sure the door’s locked and just… stay out of trouble.”

He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room beyond was exactly as promised: one bed, one television, one lamp. You both stared at the queen-sized bed. Awkward.

James hurriedly moves to the bedside table and snatches up the telephone, and punches some numbers in. You, meanwhile, drift toward the balcony. The curtains part with a soft sound, and the sliding door gives you the entire cold night as you step out.

“I’m heading to the bathroom.” You say as you head back in. “Does the telephone work?”

“Yeah,” he replies, hand still on the receiver. “I managed to call Rick for a tow truck. Says they won’t be able to come until 9 tomorrow.”

“You didn’t think of calling your parents first?”

“My dad would probably say I could get things sorted out on my own.” He says.

“Can I call my parents?”

“Sure. Do you know your landline?”

You pause. “We got a new one, so I don’t.” a dismissive shake of your head. “Never mind.”

You head to the bathroom and turn the lock behind you, the sound like a line being drawn. Inside, you try to breathe in something quiet and steady, but you can’t. In the mirror, you look for the parts of yourself you can pick on, the little flaws you think to be pluckable. Frustrated you were that they stay exactly as they are.

Meanwhile, James watches you disappear into the bathroom and waits for the door to close you out of sight. Only when you’re fully gone does he drop onto the bed. He exhales then, long and unspooled.

There are many things James can handle. He had always considered himself fairly adaptable. Plans change, cars break down. He knows these men in leather jackets and wrinkled hands surrounding the rooms around them as he thinks these things through. He had, at various points in his life, been punched in the face and kicked in the shin, and more than once did he have to explain to his father how exactly he got each bruise if he ever got home with any, which was usually most of the time.

All that, he could handle half-asleep with a hand tied behind his back while someone was yelling at him. He’s slept under less forgiving roofs, and he’s had worse company (worse had rarely been this pretty, though).

Then put him in a room with one very beautiful girl he just so happened to be hopelessly, helplessly in love with, and watch all that competence go missing.

He tried to shake it off. People shared these kinds of rooms all the time. Travelers. Families. Sports teams. Criminals on the run, probably.

I need a cigarette.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

“I’m back.” You emerge from the bathroom a while later, still in your old clothes, a borrowed robe loosely tied over them.

“Stuff on your mind?” You ask.

James is on the balcony sitting on the ledge with his back turned half to you, and the rest towards the open night. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers, one you’re not sure where he got from.

He glances back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” He said after a moment, “You could say that.”

You step closer, and James watches you all the way. He realizes faintly that seeing you through the smoke makes his head feel a lot dizzier.

“You really need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Smoking.”

He lets the cigarette tilt slightly between his teeth. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t.” When you’re close enough, you flick the tip of it with a finger. “And your lungs don’t either.”

That earns you a laugh. “You sound like my mother.”

“Better that than an enabler, right?”

Better that than an enabler, and James almost loses it. The irony is there. You have enabled much worse in him than a little ash or smoke in his lungs. Want, for one. Hope, for another. A hundred reckless instincts, each one wearing your face.

He wants to either fold himself in half or shake some sense into you. To pry your skull and point: there, there, look at what you’ve done.

“C’mere.”

You step closer until you’re right in front of him, too close that you’re aligned with the bend of his knees on the ledge. James takes the cigarette from his mouth, holds it between two fingers like a small and solved problem, then tosses it over the edge. If you wanted him clean so badly, then so be it.

Something in him responds as unsteady beings do when the wind would find their hems. A pressure and a lean toward form. Toward articulation. Toward you. But he keeps it contained by the narrowest margin of will, because he doesn’t know yet what it is.

“What is it?”

He shifts slightly from where he sits. “You think your dad's gonna kill me?”

“For what?”

“When he finds out I’m spending my sweet time with his precious little princess in a motel in the middle of nowhere.”

“If you say it like that, he might.”

“Well, what am I saying it like?”

“Like you have some… intentions.”

“Intentions.” He clicks his tongue and thinks. “What kind?”

The sun goes down, and the balcony becomes a place slightly outside the map. James sits there as though he has been left on a higher shelf of the world. You looked at him then, almost invasive. If invasions could be curious instead of cruel. As if, by looking hard enough, you might just be able to persuade him into things.

“I don’t know, James.” You lean forward on your toes, then backward on your heel. “You keep saying things a certain way. I have to retrace them until I go crazy.”

“Don’t you think maybe you’re just reading into me too much?”

“Am I ?”

He could say yes. Could blame it on you, say you were overthinking, making something out of absolutely nothing. And if he played the role right, you might even buy it. But it’d be a lie, and James has found it incredibly hard to keep lies from you. He couldn’t even say no to you half the time, let alone lie through his own teeth. Not when he’d already gone out of his way to fix that junky Shelby, cutting corners on the bill, paying for things himself so his dad wouldn’t catch on that he’d been letting some girl leave the shop receipt-free every time. Subtlety, he’s never been good at it.

“No.” Lying, even less so. “You think I should act on ‘em?”

“Your intentions?”

“Yeah.”

You look at him knowingly, hopefully and without unrest.

“If they’re not going anywhere, why not?” If you’re not going anywhere, why not here?

The season has gone on longer than he’d been able to imagine. Or maybe not long enough. Either way, when he looks back at you across the thinning dark, he understands to himself that he isn’t ready for it to end.

Ah, what am I doing?

Who knew a mere inch of opening was all James would ever need. It happens in the space of a blink. He steps down from the ledge, his hands already rising as they settle at the sides of your face. And then, in the slim, unsteady breath between one moment and the next, he leans down and catches your lips with his.

It doesn’t take much after that for things to turn. In a fit of urge and desperation, he backs you up until your knees buckle at the edge of that tiny queen bed. ‘Queen bed’ as the receptionist said, was too much of a stretch for this one. Then another moment, you both collapse on it anyway.

You discover quickly that James doesn’t like to drag things out. You feel it in these betrayals: the restless twitch of his hands and his protested stillness. You hadn’t pegged him to be the impatient type. Tonight, though, his skin runs warm, almost fever-bright. His breathing forgets its rhythm, then finds another. And when he reaches to switch on the lamp beside the bed, the room fills with amber, turning his eyes from their usual dark wood into something honey-struck.

You switch it close immediately.

“No, no James—I like it closed.”

“But I can’t see you.”

I’d look nicer when the lights are off, you try to tell him. The words are small and brittle in your throat.

“You don’t have to.” You say instead.

I need to, he thinks. Else my insides get eaten up.

James laughs low and helplessly, the sound brushing warm against your skin. “You trying to hog?”

He wants nothing more tonight than to take you in. Entirely and improperly, in visions, in motion, in all your strange fullness. The flush in your cheeks, the bright sheen at your throat, he’d only want to leave you more potent than how he found you. And when at last your pulse remembers its manners, he finds that he would like, very much, to be the reason for that too.

“There’s nothing to hog.”

“Yeah, there is.”

The orange wash of the bedside lamp makes James greedy the instant he turns it back on and looks down on you. It gilds the room, gilds your skin, gilds his appetite, and he wonders how much worse it will get once it's morning and he wakes to find you there again as living proof rather than of a dream.

“Maybe we really do need to turn the lights off,” he decides.

You tilt your head against the pillow. “Changed your mind?”

“Oh, my mind hasn’t changed a bit,” James replies, then inches closer once more. “You push me over, lady.”

“Don’t call me that.”

His hand betrays him to humiliating degrees. Lifting, pausing, and reconsidering as it is traitorously decisive, until it finally settles lightly against the edge of your cheekbone. Your breaths breathe warmth into his face, and he registers with mild alarm that they turn him a little visibly red. Even as he’s above you, when he can only look down earnestly at the gleam and glow that's made up this whole season, all that sun made flesh, you still hold every right and all the ability to make him act entirely insensible.

“Make my night, yeah?”

His mouth is so inconveniently human as it tries to chase the sweetness he’s found in your own, like a child finding the unreachable cookie jar. His hands are no better, and his skin is rough against yours that is soft as they insist on remembering what they shouldn’t have been taught so quickly.

James has never been with anyone. Not like this. So he’s scared by how natural you seem to fit into places in him he hadn’t realized were so empty.

“Only if you make mine.”

Your dad tells you time and time again, beware of boys, they’re never honest. Says they lie, that they always will. He tells you this with personal conviction. But like something you never thought you’d do, you want to tell him not this one. Not this boy.

Perhaps every girl before you has thought the same. Maybe they were laying as you are now. But this one is different, you think, you believe. You bring the thought with you as James leans in and kisses you again, drawing you under until you’re pressed into the pillow with nowhere else to go. You believe it through the warmth of his hand tracing the skin under your jaw, with the other moving over your hair. And you believed it most when you touched him back and thought never to return.

“I’ll make a fantasy out of you,” James breathes out as he buries his head in the crook of your jaw. And then I’ll make a believer out of myself. A flame and a moth.

You huff out a little airy laugh. “Could you?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “Have I ever disappointed you before?”

The rest of the night, if “night” is even the correct term for it, and James is not entirely convinced it is, breaks apart into the most non-linear little pieces, as though misfiled in the wrong century. There are, instead, these conditions: warmth with a clear origin, motions in improper geometry, and the strange, persistent closeness.

James remembers the beaches of his childhood. Of tides returning to their remarkable shoreline no matter how often they should be pulled away. His thoughts, ordinarily so well-trained, behave much the same around you. It’s an inefficient system, all this remembering.

Skin to skin, breath upon breath, there was nowhere else to go but under.

And with all the pretty things James had whispered to you that night, if it were truly what you thought it to be meant anything at all, then you took them with you to your dreams in the hopes that they’d be better interpreted there.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

If you had just lived through the best night of your life a few hours ago, you certainly left no such obvious traces of it this morning. None that James could see.

The diner sat in a quiet early-hour warmth just beside the motel, low light with clinking cutlery, and something steady about it. James has always been like that with breakfast. No matter where he ends up, no matter how far off or unfamiliar, he makes time for it. You sit just right across from him in the corner booth, and though he thought maybe this would be the perfect time to pick up on the conversation he’d left to fend for last night, you just wouldn’t look at him.

You keep your head held low as you fix your attention to the food you’d been picking on your plate and chewing. Is facing him really going to cost me something?

James clicked his tongue. “You don’t like eggs?”

“I don’t like the sunny side ups.” You say through a mouthful, not bothering to look up.

“Give it here.”

You slide the plate across as ceramic grazes the table in a soft passing sound, slipping between the diner’s lull of conversations. He switches it out with his own, then shifts his plate of scrambled eggs closer to you.

“Eat,” he says. You do.

Not because you’re still hungry. You just need to give your hands something to commit to. Across the table, you feel him watching you in that pressing way of his.

“Slept well?” he asks.

“You tell me. I was literally next to you.”

His mouth shifts, and he wonders how far he’s able to take this.

“Just trying to add some light to this shit. You’re making it awkward.”

Why wouldn’t it be awkward?

You shake your head. “I’m not making it awkward.”

“Yeah?” He leans forward slightly as his elbows brush the edge of the table. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“I don’t know James.” You move your food around, and the grip on your fork is a lot tighter now. “This was so unplanned.”

“Hmm?”

“None of this would’ve happened if the truck hadn’t broken down.”

There’s something barely offended, but ultimately unreadable in his expression.

“So what are you saying?” His voice lowers just a little. “You wouldn’t have wanted this to happen?”

And you finally look up at him for the first time today. “No, I–”

You wonder what it was you were even trying to argue against. There’s no denying you’d never regret what you had done yesterday. Not now, not later, not even if your dad found out. It seems entering adulthood had a way of overcomplicating things, layers upon layers where there might have been none if only you had tried.

“Don’t tell me you got a boyfriend back in college you forgot to mention ‘cause I do not want to be your little homewrecker–”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, God, I’m not that awful.” You rub at the corners of your eyes in frustration.

“So what’s the matter?”

The matter for you was simple: that this was going to be one of those cute little flings, as fleeting as they were all unplanned for. The cruel fate of someday being remembered as that ‘summer of ‘02’ months or years from now, and nothing more.

“Nothing.” And you know he doesn't believe you.

“I just,” Your fork pauses on your plate, and you think of either being straightforward or telling another one of your unbelievable lies.

“I’m gonna have to go back to college sooner or later.”

A weak defense mechanism presents itself in your throat, small and evasive. It’s then that James now understands. So that's what you were fussing about.

He’d been so caught up in the present tense that he’d neglected the so-called never-not-befores. By then, he’s realized a little late how soon you’d be gone for months at a time. It wouldn’t be the first. Only now, he’s going to have to learn the hard way of an act called letting go.

There were slips of transcripts his grandmother kept around the old house that he used to read. All those Chinese sayings about destiny, yuanfen, she called it. The idea of encounters not being all that random. and that certain intersections have been pre-authored into the margins of existence. Red strings, love locks, the Old Man of the Moon, the sort of things that make you think of magic. James had always found it a little too bogus to be true. And yet, if such a thing does exist, if yuanfen is by any bit operational at all, he hoped it would be on your side.

“I hope you’re not taking that junky car with you–”

“Keep my Mustang out your mouth James.”

James can only smile at you in turn and think about that stupid car that started it all. He huffs a laugh and slides his leftover hashbrowns across the table.

“You better eat it. Need to make up for the rice.”

Your fork cuts through the food he’d offered as you take a big bite. “Alright.”

He hoped it would be you.

Because then he wouldn’t have to worry in the end. Ten miles, a thousand, an ocean or two, it made no meaningful difference. Water returns to its level. Winds to their courses. You, he hoped, would return to him. Or he to you.

The train ride back to Old Town Temecula had been as eventful in that it made your hairs stick out and your attention a little too heightened. You sat closely next to each other, as close as any two people could be. Looking around at everyone else, the old couple with their arms knotted together, the lonely guy just by the door, and behind him, a young pair stealing too many kisses as if they might run out, you realize nearly everyone’s got something of their own.

And while you were busy doing just that, James hovers his rough hand over your soft one lying on your side, doesn’t consider such consequences of it, and presses it down, nudging his fingers in between yours. They interlock much like zipper teeth.

Just like your face, his hands stayed warm the whole train ride back, the way you had imagined often and always a little too vividly.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

James remembers the summers he’d spent in a plastic pool on Fridays, not a day over five. That, or when he’d spend them in Martin’s treehouse watching movies on the television they’d found at the back of a storefront. He remembers the heat pressed as close as another body, the exhilaration, the freedom to act his age. But this is the first summer he’s looked at a girl and almost scared himself to death from the guilt. Guilt, the word he uses to think less of his desire. But looking at you now, he could think of nothing more.

This was the cruelest season of them all.

“Do I look alright?” You ask from your vanity, turning just enough to catch James in the mirror who’s sprawled across your bed, hands folded behind his head. You’d waited until noon for your dad to leave for yet another fishing trip before sneaking James inside. It had been a successfully executed operation if you ignored the part where he nearly slipped off the roof and met an embarrassing end. The things James was willing to risk just to see his girl were far from limited.

“Looks like it.”

“Seriously James?” You snap the cap back onto your lipstick with a sharp click and move to the edge of the bed, bending down to slip on your shoes. “Spent three hours getting ready for the date where you spent at most 10 seconds to ask me on. Some enthusiasm would be appreciated.”

Ah, but my throat’s all caught, Y/n. How could I say anything at all?

“You look great. Amazing. Your hair looks like a shiny toilet surface. Did you want that?”

The words came out clumsy on the way free. He had better ones, prettier ones lined up behind his teeth, but he was saving those for later.

“Thanks.”

For the better part, you suspected James had every intention of spending whatever time remained of your vacation planted firmly at your side. He’d developed this habit of appearing wherever you happened to be. Was he your boyfriend though? Absolutely not.

“I’m all ready. We should head out.”

But whether he was your boyfriend or not seemed beside the point, because when your ‘not boyfriend’ pushed himself upright, he once again tried his best to maintain composure and try not to tackle you back onto the mattress. You looked beautiful. Well you were always beautiful, but tonight you clearly made an occasion of it. The sight alone was enough to set James’ face ablaze.

“I’ll wait for you right here.” He said as he stood up, finding his way behind you so that he could whisper it in the shell of your ear. ‘Pretty, pretty lady’, to which you gave him a warm smile. His day opened up like a fruit under a knife.

You hurry on downstairs, catching your mother in the kitchen. A quick goodbye, a promise that you’d be out with friends and come home late enough to warrant concern, but she let you go. James counted as a friend. Never to you, but technically, in the broadest possible sense, he was. You slipped outside and circled beneath your bedroom window, shielding your eyes from the rays as you looked up. James was perched on your sill like a disturbed cat.

“Sight’s clear.” You announced in a stage whisper. James tried his best to wriggle out the window and grabbed for the nearby branch. There was a lot of rustling, a muffled curse, before he dropped to the patch fo grass with an unceremonious thud.

He brushed the dirt off his jeans, still catching his breath. “You seriously need to properly introduce me to your parents. I can’t keep this up.”

“You don’t like sneaking up to my room?” You tease as you both make your way to where he parked the truck. Fixed, this time. You trust it to work. “That’s a shame. I happen to find it quite romantic.”

“Try being on the climbing end, and you'll be thinking twice.” By the time James said it, the two of you had reached the clearing where the truck waited. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, as if the sight of it stirred up an old memory. You both scrambled inside, James fired up the engine, and the rock rolled forward.

James figured that if he was gonna do this, he ought to do it properly. A real date, something with intention (and a lot of money) behind it. But time was proving itself annoyingly finite, so early afternoon would have to do. The sun was what brought you two together, so it seemed only right to make it a little centerpiece. Besides, James liked you best in daylight. Not because you were any less lovely at night, but that daytime laid everything out to him in the clearest golden motions. Like citrus and canary yellow, sweet tea and dynamite.

The drive pulls you farther into town, past the familiar corners and into the part with the nicer sidewalks. When James finally pulls up in front of a restaurant with gleaming windows and a valet service, you turn to look at him. He catched your stare and gave you that unreadable almost-smile, then shook his head.

And dinner was wonderfully surreal. No boy had ever gone out of their way to take you someplace this nice out of their own volition. That was James all over, thoughtful in ways that would sneak up on you. He was so generous with you, honest too, and knew how to say the right things. He was also blessed, or perhaps cursed, with remarkable hands. One of the first things you’d learned about them was that they could fix almost anything put in front of them. The second was that, whenever given the chance, they were good at taking you apart.

You saw it now too, as James sat across from you, laughing at every little thing you said. He did it with his whole body, as if his joy were too large to contain in something as small as his teethy grins. You found that he had the face of an old song, of one your mother liked to play through the record every morning. There is only so much considerable longing you can fit into the four minutes of a song.

Halfway through your food, you suddenly remembered something, then quickly reached for your handbag.

“Oh! By the way…” James, who had been in the middle of demolishing a truly unfair amount of delicious clam shells, paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

You rummage through some receipts, a lip gloss, and maybe half your earthly possessions. At last, your hand emerged triumphantly, clutching a tiny plastic toy dog.

“I wanted to give you this. Thought it looked like you.” You placed it in his held out palm, and he turned it over in his fingers, brow furrowing. It was a small brown dog with oversized eyes and a permanently alert expression. Frankly, the ‘resemblance’ was confusing.

“... What is it?”

“It’s a little pet, from the Littlest Pet Shop.” You said with all the reverence of introducing royalty. “I’ve been collecting them forever. They’re adorable, and look–” You reached over and tapped its head. It wobbled enthusiastically from side to side. James watched with captivation and held it up, examining it like an archeologist uncovering a priceless relic.

“Thank you. Seriously. I could glue this down on my dashboard–”

Your expression turned murderous “Do not glue this anywhere, James. These are precious things. I expect you to care for this as your own child.” James nodded solemnly, and then cradled the little dog in both hands.

“Gotcha.”

The little dog, Doudou, as James had named him (brown rice), sat perched beside the salt shaker keeping a vigilant eye on the proceedings. The restaurant had filled in around over the last few hours, and sunlight spilled through the windows, catching the rims of glasses and turning everything faintly sparkling. James had loosened up considerably, which was to say he kept taking unwanted bites of your cake, denying your every retort.

“Hey–” You fought his fork away from your plate with your own. “You should’ve ordered another earlier. This is criminal.”

He shrugged unrepentant and took another piece. “Possession is only nine-tenths of the law, by the way.”

You pointed a fork at him accusingly. “One day James, your hubris will be your downfall.”

His smile was enough to make you forget whatever mean thing you’d been preparing to say. Eventually though, perhaps it was the angle of the light, or how your eyes drifted toward the window, again and again, that had James wondering yet again.

He sets his fork down. “What’s wrong?”

“You think we've been here long enough?” You asked.

A brow lifted. “Why? You wanna leave?” You glanced out at the lowering sun, and the sky beginning its slow descent, and nodded.

“Yeah.” A small smile tugged at your mouth. “I wanna see the sun before it sets.”

And so the bill was paid, Doudou was safely secured in James’ jacket pocket, and within minutes you were back in the truck, the engine rumbling to life from beneath you.

The truck heads a little towards the edge of town and uphill, and the field beyond steals the breath right out of you. It rolls outward in waves of tall grass and dandelion silk, all gold and green and dreamlike as you both got out.

And though you dress was never made for such things, you run straight down the slope, the ground catching you in a fit of laughter as you fall to your side. James could only shout for you as you rolled on down.

The sun had reached the ruinous hour when it seemed time to finally spend itself entirely. It scattered light all over, and it made you think of beauty and whether grass stains ever truly came out. James, for his part, felt his insides turn over like a drawer being searched. The land went on and on, exceeding the eye and all good manner. Yet for all that breadth, all that open country, he need only lower his eyes.

You lay there on the grass with the last of the sun’s rays tangled in between your hair, smiling up at him from the same green earth that had made him, had made trees and rivers and every other ordinary miracle, and seen fit, had placed you here before him. And what is another miracle if not this?

“Please don’t do that ever again.”

“Come–!”

You tug him by the hand and pull, and the two of you roll a little further down the slope in a tangle of hair, fabric, and breathless laughter. James has to gather your hair away from your face and disentangle it from your mouth just so he can kiss you properly, and fold himself around you like an unblooming flower.

And when he looks at you after, he wants, wants, and wants some more. Against all the reasonably unreasonable forces. To be yours. To be of you and for you. To make a home somewhere in the crook of your neck or the dip in your chest, the two places where your heartbeat is clearest.

“My dress is all ruined.”

“I’ll buy you a new one, how does that sound?”

“You oughta just buy me a new car.” A joke, obviously. But James asks the question anyway.

“Will you like that?”

You both commit to a very spontaneous decision, and James is grateful he had the intuition to keep a clean blanket in his truck beforehand. The sun sets, and by the time the stars had gone up, he slid open the sun roof upon your request. In the blinking machinery of the darkness above, James points out plants like he’s naming his old acquaintances, then offers you the strange superstitions he collected as a child.

Then you fall asleep right there, wrapped in a blanket on the backseat of his father's truck while the stars slip down like a drawn curtain over the world. James stays awake and keeps vigil through the night, held up by the weight against his chest and the soft cadence of your breathing, borrowing from it a calm he’s yet to learn to keep for himself.

A little later into morning, he drives the coastal road that leads home. And he pulls into that same clearing again, and lifts you carefully from the passenger seat. He reaches for your purse with the key to your front door, and lets himself i as quietly as he can. Inside, he moves slowly and watches his every step so the floorboards won’t creak. He takes the stairs just as carefully, until he makes it to your room without a suspecting soul there to catch him.

He lowers you onto your bed gently, and you sink into your mattress much like he does as he follows, dropping down beside you to fit himself right into the sprawl of your limbs. His breath is warm where it brushes your skin, his nose tingling where it touches yours.

“Wake up, little lady.” He murmurs, voice still rough with groginess..” You want me to clean you up??”

“Later…” You mumble. “Stop calling me that.”

“I’ll leave you be.” He shifts a lot closer, if being closer was still possible. “I need to head off to the shop.”

Your fingers crumple slightly around his sleeve. “Stay a while.”

“How long did you want this while to be?” He looks at you earnestly, as he looks for a similarly earnest answer.

The morning light slides further in through the curtains, catching on the edges of your hair, the folds of the blanket, and James grants himself a moment.

“A long kind of while.”

He couldn’t say no to that.

Later that afternoon, at the shop when James is helping adjust something from under the hood of a car, his dad’s sights narrowed onto that small dog figurine sitting new and unfitting on the counter next to the piles of papers and blueprints.

“What the hell is that thing?” He finally asks.

James doesn’t even need to look up from where he’s looking to know what he was referring to. “It’s a dog.”

“This yours?”

“Gift.”

“Whatever for?”

James tightens a bolt a little too firmly and scoffs, a tiny sign of a grin pulling at his face. “It’s normal to receive gifts dad.”

His father exhales through his nose unimpressedly. “Well this looks like a gift you give to a girl, and you ain't one.”

James wipes his ands on his stained jeans and turns to grab Doudou. From the counter, he quickly settles him onto the workbench, one he shared with his dad. Out of some half-assed spite that made him want to laugh, he turns to him and points at Doudou the dog. “Just deal with the damn toy.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Your mom has been trying not to cry since you’d went downstairs with your bags, which only made her more talkative as she circled around the same three instructions: study well, eat properly, wash your sheets when you get back.

“And don’t forget to call, okay?” she says again, holding your hands like an anchor. You wanted to die of embarrassment because James was standing right at the front door.

“I’ll be back before you know it, Ma.” you answer as you lean in to kiss her cheek. Your dad stands a little behind her, arms crossed trying not to be part of the emotional fiasco happening in front of him. He clears his throat when James shifts from where he stands.

“You’re always taking her off to places, huh.”

“I’m getting her to the airport, Mr. L/n.” James tries to feign nonchalance, and your dad buys it cluelessly. Your mom finally lets you go, stepping back with a long look like she’s trying to memorize your face. When you turn back, James helps you haul your things out the door. As you start walking away, he glances at you sideways.

“You think your dad's softening up to me?”

“He lets you in my room now. With the door closed, mind you. That’s gotta be it.”

The car ride was quiet. James didn’t know what to say for once, so he kept his eyes on the road, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. He watched the streets roll by, the stoplight changing, strangers crossing intersections, and the usual moving on of life.

By the time the airport came into view, James pulled into an empty space near the terminal entrance, close enough that he could spot the steady stream of travelers coming and going, departures, arrivals, reunions, the like. He killed the engine, and you carefully unbuckled your seatbelt. James glances over at you, then quickly away, and back again. You folded your arms across your chest and turned to meet his gaze.

“You have my new number saved right?”

“Yeah I do.”

“And you'll call?”

“I’ll call you when you arrive.”

James looks at you and catches something small and uneasy. He shifts in his seat and leans over the console. “What’s wrong?”

You look out the windshield for a moment. And once you seem like you’ve made up your mind about something, you lean in as well, and kiss James breathless.

When you pull back, James looks struck, and a laugh seeps out of you. “I’ll let you be my boyfriend now.”

James thinks fucking finally. He’s waited this long.

“You could’ve made the decision a little earlier, no?”

You give him a look of fake compassion and press your foreheads together. “We sure still had a good time.”

We sure did.

“I’ll see you in a few months.”

He’ll certainly remember the way you would sing that godforsaken song, Shape of My Heart by Sting over and over, every time it was on the radio. And he wonders what shape his heart would prove to be (thank you Gordon Sumner) if you were to cut him open and take a peak. He would have to explain it to you then, if he could find the words:

Love, yes, he had love, and felt it in these accruals. The way limestone was his peculiar little architect, building cathedrals in his mind out of the most ordinary memories. You’d be lodged to the base like a seed in a seam splitting ground and stone. Or maybe he’d be changing oil, or turning a wrench, and there you’d be again, threaded through the gears smiling from between its teeth.

The shape of his heart: an endless concept to think about.

When he drives home, the seat is empty beside him. Somewhere above, his heart has slipped its moorings and gone migrating an inch closer to yours, just a few thousand miles away. And from where you were, you held the same bit of hopefulness, your measure of passing slowly turning into a clockwise cycle of before James, after James, and the exquisite ache of wanting for James again.

Summer made conspirators of everyone. The trees would lean closer, the sun softened the pavement. Time, to most, could stretch themselves as thin as caramel. But summer has ended, so he’d have to stick to a memory on his way back.

And the town could forget your tire tracks by autumn. Rain will smooth it over and leaves will litter over green and brown. James, though, knows he won’t.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

(BONUS)

A few months later, James steps into the auto lot the way he’s done a hundred times before. Rust, oil, hot metal, everything baked under the sun and layered into the air to smell. Rick sits on the hood of a sedan, half-slouched and wiping grease off his hands with a towel.

“Morning Rick.”

“Hey!” Rick waves, squinting at him and then the car he’s got. “Whatchu here for? What’s with the Mustang?”

“Here to scrape it. It’s done its time.”

Rick gives a low whistle, hopping down from the hood and eyeing the Mustang down. “Ah, then you'll have yourself a good deal for it. I’ll say.”

And that’s all James was really here for, really. To grant your one wish as though it were a dying one. It left him confused in some way, he’d have to admit. You loved that car. He hadn’t expected you to let go of it the moment you left.

Yet the poor thing had exhausted all of its potential by the time you were done with it, so the junk or resale was the next best thing.

Rick jerks his thumb toward a corner of the lot. “Oh these just came in.” He walks them over.

“They’re not brand new, but it’s solid condition. Engines clean, suspensions intact, minor wear on the bushings but nothing too big The boss man’s thinking of flipping ‘em for a nice penny.”

Theres a Toyota Prado sitting right at the corner, boxy and grounded, and built to take on dirt. James takes a closer look.

“Try and sell this one to me, will ya Rick? C’mon, advertise.”

Rick raises a brow. “You don’t want that truck no more, huh?”

“‘S not for me.”

He looks at the mustang, that vehicle of memories he was so adamant on talking you out of scraping. A good gift, huh?

“I’ll take it.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

mari here! guys did u get the ‘somebody better be dying’ Shrek reference…? no? that's OK D: lowk lost it w ts fic bc the direction was all over the place but HEYYY I'm back but not rly ! I posted this to like make up for the long dcu wait yall r gonna have to bear with 😭 I promise it's not scraped at all in fact it barely started 😛 but ur gonna have to give me some time bc I’ve been super busy and burnt + I’ll be honest this whole tumblr thing has been making me feel v anxious lately (?) 😅 it’s not u it’s me ahh 💨 which is why I haven’t been getting into the blr these past few days 😞🙏 tho i will answer a few asks tonight mwahahaha ill try </33 ily

#cortis x reader #cortis james #cortis zhao yufan #zhao yufan

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