🜼 — 𝟎𝟏 . 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊
thank you @pinkyups for the gif <3 and @mieluno for the divider <3
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 𝟒,𝟑 𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 : 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐯𝐲 — 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : 𝐀 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨, 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐯𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫-𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝, 𝐫𝐞𝐝-𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲. 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞. 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐭, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 🜼
It was Sunday night and you were looking forward to getting home after a night with the girls at the local bar. Hannah had decided to stay over at her boyfriend’s and Allie joined her, how those two managed to get partners who lived in the same house- you’d never quite understand. But you weren’t even bothered. Just looking forward to the relaxing night you were about to treat yourself with, a nice hot shower that involved your favourite berry scented soap and a blow-out that contained too many hair products, each of them as sweet smelling as the rest.
You rolled your eyes when the rain started pattering against Cherry’s windshield, the cherry-red chevy was your baby, and she was very resilient in all types of weather, but the water droplets just banged against her vintage exterior too aggressively for your liking.
You rubbed along her steering wheel, “Almost there baby,” the squeak of the wipers was answer enough and you decided to flick on the radio, hopefully the soft melodies of you mother’s fleetwood mac CD would drown out the echoing of the torrential downpour, a significant increase from the initial patter.
For about one picturesque second , the vehicle was filled with Stevie Nicks’ vocals and you sighed, the song reminded you of when your parents would dance in the kitchen, your dad tickling your mothers sides in a way that would make her screech and slap his shoulder playfully- you and your siblings would cringe and run out into the backgarden, ignoring her calls for dinner in 10 minutes.
The next, the song gave one tragic little crackle and died.
You stared at your dashboard.
Cherry continued rolling down the road through the rain, wipers dragging water from the windshield in uneven arcs, the headlights turning the wet pavement ahead of you into a long black ribbon of reflected streetlights.
“No,” you said.
The radio did not respond.
You pressed the power button once, keeping your eyes on the road.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still nothing.
A third time, because sometimes persistence was the answer to everything.
You were still being assaulted by the hollow banging of the sheets of water splattering outside. Taking a slow breath, you remembered what mama always told you- a big deep breath before making expensive decisions or replying to emails sent by people who used, “just circling back” unironically.
“Cherry,” you said, very calmly. “Do not do this to me.”
The car gave a faint, worrying cough.
Not a human cough, obviously. You were not insane. You understood machinery. You had dated enough emotionally unavailable boys and owned enough temperamental objects to know that sometimes things made sounds without meaning anything dramatic.
But still, any reasonable person would agree that she coughed at you, a little, wet, mechanical throat-clear that vibrated beneath your feet and travelled straight up your spine.
You tightened your hands around the steering wheel.
“Absolutely not.”
Rain battered against the windshield hard enough to make the world outside blur at the edges. The road was mostly empty, which should have been comforting and was instead deeply insulting. Of course Cherry would choose an empty road. Of course she would not have the decency to make her point in front of a café or a supermarket or somewhere with lighting that did not make everything look like the opening scene of a horror movie.
The speedometer in front of you flickered, the little pointer rotated wildly before it settled on the big, red, zero.
Your stomach dropped.
“Cherry.”
Another cough, this time it wasn’t ignorable. Unlike the suspicious little shudders Cherry had been doing whenever you slowed down at traffic lights for the past three days, which you had been ignoring in a deeply optimistic way.
“Baby, no,” you whispered.
The engine stuttered beneath you.
You flicked your eyes toward the side of the road, searching through the rain for somewhere to pull over that did not look like the sort of place people disappeared in true crime documentaries. The headlights caught the edge of a sign ahead, blue and white and half-hidden behind rain-slick branches.
A garage.
Not even a proper one, at first glance. More like a family shop tucked off the road, with two wide bay doors, a small office light still glowing despite the late hour, and one battered truck parked outside beneath the awning. It looked open, though that might have been wishful thinking. Cherry lurched again.
“Okay,” you said quickly. “Okay, okay, I see it. We’re going. Don’t be dramatic.”
Cherry ignored you and rolled toward the garage with the exhausted dignity of someone arriving at the hospital after insisting all day that they were fine.
By the time you managed to pull into the small lot, the rain had turned violent. This wasn’t romantic rain. Not soft, rom-com, dramatic reunion with undying love confessions rain. Not like the rain you and your cousins would watch on TV, gathered around on the living room floor at your grandparent’s house, tummy first in the plush carpet, sharing a bag of crunchy baby carrots.
This was the type that slapped against the roof and pooled around tyres and turned every light into a smear. You parked beneath the edge of the awning, though not far enough beneath it to avoid the rain completely because you were stressed and Cherry had chosen that exact second to make another noise you never wanted to hear again.
The engine died before you turned the key.
You sat there for one long second, “Oh my God,” you breathed.
The rain answered.
You leaned forward and rested your forehead lightly against the steering wheel, careful not to smudge your lipstick because if everything else was going to fall apart, your mouth was not. The car smelled like your perfume, old leather, and the faint strawberry air freshener you had bought by mistake because the store had been out of cherry and settled for the next best option. Your hair was already frizzing from the humidity despite the fact you had not even left the car yet.
This was fine. This was a normal evening. Girls broke down outside strange, off the highway garages all the time.
Right?
You lifted your head and looked toward the lit office window.
There were people inside. Thank God.
You grabbed your purse, cursed when the strap caught on the gear shift, apologised to Cherry because none of this was her fault emotionally even if it was absolutely her fault mechanically, and shoved the door open.
The rain hit you immediately. Rude in the way it shoved you in its unforgiving momentum, thrusting against your clothes and drenching you down to the core. You wobbled on your feet against its forceful bullying.
By the time you crossed the short distance from Cherry to the garage office, your cardigan was soaked through, your hair was wet at the ends, and your ballet flats had made the deeply unfortunate discovery that puddles existed. You pushed open the office door with far more force than intended, stumbled inside, and brought half the storm with you.
Two men looked up.
One older, sitting behind the counter with paperwork spread in front of him and a pair of reading glasses low on his nose.
The other younger, standing near a workbench with a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark hair slightly messy like he had been running a hand through it all night.
A third voice came from what you can only assume was the office, “Who the fuck is coming in at this time?”
You winced, biting your lip and wisely made the choice to look at the pair in front of you. The older man rolled his eyes at the remark, whilst the younger was more focussed on you.
Probably the state you were in, the chill had settled into your bones and goosebumps had erupted across your skin. The dress you had worn for girl’s night was not built for the weather and you wished you had bothered to look at the forecast before pulling the baby-doll peplum one piece out of your closet, but the length was just right and the white ruffles at the top were accented perfectly with the ruched red and white gingham against your chest. It didn’t help that Allie had hyped you up so much that you broke out your favourite ballet flats to finish off the outfit.
You felt like a little-girl’s barbie doll that somehow ended up in the washing machine as you stood in front of these two confused men, who were probably looking forward to closing down for the day.
“My car is dying,” you said.
Both men stared.
You stood there dripping onto the mat, clutching your purse against your chest, rainwater sliding down your jaw, red lipstick somehow still intact because at least one thing in your life had loyalty.
The younger one blinked.
“Dying?”
“Yes.”
The older man’s mouth twitched, “Mechanically?” he asked, folding his glasses off his nose and setting them down on the newspaper he was hunched over.
You gestured helplessly toward the window.
“Emotionally, mechanically, spiritually. I’m not sure yet. She coughed.”
The younger man looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“She coughed,” he repeated back to you, his arms folded over his chest.
“Yes.”
“Cars don’t cough.”
“Mine did.”
The older man leaned back in his chair, now openly amused.
The younger one looked past you through the rain toward the lot. “Which one?”
You turned and pointed, though the rain made Cherry look less like a car and more like a tragic red blur beneath the awning. “Her.”
“Her?”
“Cherry.”
The younger man had followed your finger, but turned back to you when you said her name.
“Cherry.”
You nodded.
“That’s the model?”
“That’s her name.”
There was a pause, perhaps this was the moment where a normal person might have realised they were giving a very strange first impression. However, you were cold, wet, and worried about your car, so self-awareness had been postponed.
“She’s a Chevy,” you added, like that cleared everything up.
The older man coughed once into his fist, badly hiding a laugh.
The younger one finally smiled. A crooked pull at one corner of his mouth that immediately made him look more dangerous than a mechanic in a rainstorm had any right to look.
“Right,” he said. “Cherry the Chevy.”
“Cherry the cherry-red Chevy,” you corrected, rolling onto your heels and back.
His smile got worse, but he brought a hand up to pretend he was running it down his stubble, he nodded as though you had just stated the sky is blue, “Of course.”
The older man stood, sliding his glasses off. “Logan, grab the umbrella.”
Logan.
So that was his name, it suited him. Wait what?
The younger man-Logan-tossed the rag onto the workbench and reached for a large black shop umbrella leaning by the door. “You drive her here like that?”
“She drove herself,” you said, then blinked, realising you sounded insane. “I mean, I drove. Obviously. But she made the decision for us both.”
Logan opened the door, and the sound of the rain surged in.
“You always talk about your car like she’s a person?”
You stepped toward him, trying not to drip directly onto the floor any more than you already had, "That feels a little unkind to say in front of her. She’s having a very hard night."
The older man laughed from behind you.
Logan looked at you, smile still lingering, “Fair.”
He opened the umbrella before stepping outside, and you followed him beneath it, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his arm. The rain hammered against the fabric above you, loud enough to soften the world into something smaller. The garage light spilled across the lot in a pale yellow wash, catching on wet asphalt, on Cherry’s red paint, on the strands of hair stuck to your cheek.
Logan was taller than you had realised inside. Which was not important. At all.
He held the umbrella more over you than himself, which you noticed despite trying not to, and by the time you reached Cherry, his shoulder was wet from rain blowing sideways.
“You’re getting soaked,” you said.
He glanced at you.
“You’re already soaked.”
“That doesn’t mean you should join me.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That sounds like famous last words.”
“You always this dramatic?”
“Yes,” you said immediately. “But only when my loved ones are in danger.”
He looked at the car, and pointed at Cherry, “Loved ones.”
“She’s family-adjacent.” Nodding, you patted her slippery bonnet, immediately regretting it as the frigid water numbed your hand. You shook it away, ignoring the amused expression Logan pinned you with.
“Family-adjacent.”
“My nana picked her out, and my parents bought her after Strawberry died.”
Logan had already crouched near the front of the car, but he paused at that.
“Strawberry?”
“My old Beetle.”
“Your old car was named Strawberry.”
“She was red too.”
“Was she also family-adjacent?”
You looked at him like the answer should have been obvious.
“She was my first car.”
Logan stared for half a second, then shook his head, but he was smiling as he moved toward the hood.
“Pop it.”
You leaned inside to pull the latch, immediately regretting the way cold rainwater dripped from your hair down the back of your neck. Cherry’s hood released with a dull click, and Logan lifted it, securing it with practiced ease. The garage light caught the line of his forearm as he reached inside, and you looked away so fast you nearly bumped your hip against the side mirror.
You busied yourself by smoothing one hand over Cherry’s door, “Don’t worry,” you murmured. “He seems competent.”
“I can hear you,” Logan said.
“I know.”
“Competent?”
“So far.”
He glanced at you over the engine. “That’s generous.”
“I’m a generous person.”
“You brought me a coughing car and called her Cherry.”
“I know. She makes a strong first impression.”
The rain kept falling hard around the edges of the umbrella. Logan leaned over the engine, focused now, and for the first time since you had burst into the office, he stopped looking amused and started looking entirely serious. His hands moved confidently through the engine bay, checking, adjusting, pausing. He asked you questions every so often-what happened before she stalled, how long the shuddering had been going on, whether any warning lights had appeared-and you answered as best you could, though it became significantly harder when he reached for a flashlight and the movement made the muscles in his forearm shift.
You forbade yourself from developing a crush in a parking lot.
Especially not on a man who had known you for seven minutes and already thought you were insane.
“You said it started with the radio?” he asked.
You blinked, grateful for the question because it gave your brain something to do besides betray you.
“Yes.”
“The radio died first?”
“Very dramatically.”
“Then the shuddering?”
“Then the emotional coughing.”
He gave you a look.
You shrugged.
“I stand by the description.”
His mouth twitched again.
The older man had come out at some point and was standing near the garage door, watching with the expression of someone who had seen enough late-night car emergencies to know when one was about to become entertaining.
Logan checked something deeper beneath the hood and muttered under his breath.
You leaned closer. What was in front of you was a whole lot of car, and you were subtly impressed that Logan could make sense of it.
“Is she going to live?”
He looked over.
You were close enough now that the umbrella barely covered both of you. Rain dripped from the edge between you and the scent of wet asphalt rose warm from the ground. Your perfume had shifted in the rain, less pungent than when you had sprayed it hours ago. Cherry and vanilla, yes, but softened now by cold water and damp wool and whatever impossible thing happened when perfume met skin and weather.
Logan noticed it. It hit him when you leaned in, one hand still resting anxiously on the car, your hair wet at the ends, your lipstick bright despite the storm, your eyes wide and serious as if he was examining a wounded animal instead of a temperamental Chevy. You smelled like rain and cherries. Like something sweet made sharper by the cold. Like something he was not supposed to be thinking about while working.
He looked back at the engine immediately.
“She’ll live.”
Your shoulders dropped with relief so quickly he almost laughed.
“Oh thank God.”
“But you’re not driving her far tonight.”
Your expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can get her stable enough to move, but she needs a proper look. Alternator maybe. Could be wiring. Battery’s not loving life either.”
You placed a hand over your heart.
“Don’t say that in front of her.”
“She knows.”
“She’s sensitive.”
“She stalled in a parking lot.”
“Because she was overwhelmed.”
The repair took longer than you expected and less time than you feared. Logan worked in the rain and the garage light while you stood nearby, occasionally asked questions, and made deeply unhelpful comments whenever Cherry made a noise you disliked. At one point, you offered to hold the flashlight and then immediately aimed it at the wrong thing because you were telling him a story about the time your mother made you transport a lamb in Strawberry and forgot what your hands were doing.
“A lamb,” Logan said, voice muffled as he leaned under the hood.
“Yes.”
“In the car.”
“She was small.”
“The lamb or the car?”
“Both.”
“And your mom made you?”
“She didn’t make me. She strongly requested with maternal authority.”
“That’s making you.”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I’m starting to get a picture.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Logan, still half-focused on Cherry, caught it out of the corner of his eye.
But he re-focussed on the engine in front of him just as quickly, this was going to be a problem if he didn’t get a hold of himself.
You were pretty when you walked in.
Obviously.
Soaked hair, red mouth, wide eyes, ridiculous car name. That had been easy to notice, but pretty was usually not enough to distract him in the way you were right now.
The problem was everything else.
The way you spoke to your car like she might feel neglected if you stopped. The way you apologised when you stepped in a puddle and splashed his boot. The way your laughter kept surprising him, bright even in the rain.
And the perfume.
That was definitely a problem too.
By the time Cherry started again, the engine turning over with a rough but steady sound, you looked at him like he had personally performed a miracle.
“She’s alive.”
“For now.”
“Don’t ruin this.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being pessimistic.”
“I’m being a mechanic.”
“Mechanics can have bedside manners.”
He leaned one hand against the open door, looking into the car while Cherry idled. “You got someone who can pick you up?”
Your smile faltered slightly, barely slipping from almost-stencil like posture. But he noticed.
“I can call a cab.”
His father spoke from the garage doorway before Logan could answer.
“I’ll call one from the office. Weather’s bad.”
You turned toward him immediately, both your hands wrapped around the handle of the umbrella as your skirt billowed across your thighs.. “Oh, you don’t have to.”
Jesus, had you just fallen out of a black and white film, or had Dean finally smashed him hard enough into the boards to do serious damage?
“I know.”
The older man smiled.
You smiled back, softer now.
“Thank you.”
Logan looked away.
There was something strange about watching you smile at someone else, even his father, because your whole face changed when you meant it. Like warmth arrived before the expression did.
He closed Cherry’s hood and shook his head, his curls now fallen from the weight of the rain into his eyes, , “You’ll need to leave her here overnight.”
You looked wounded, pressing your lips together and somehow barely smearing the perfect red paint that he somehow kept glancing at every few minutes. One of your hands came to rest against your heart,“She’ll be inside?”
Logan glanced toward the bay.
“Yes.”
“Not out here?”
“No.”
“And nobody will be mean to her?”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Logan sighed. “Nobody will be mean to Cherry.”
“Thank you.”
“You realise she’s a car.”
“Yes. But she’s been very loyal to me, and I think that should count for something."
His smile returned before he could stop it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m getting that.”
When the cab arrived fifteen minutes later, you were mostly dry from standing under the lukewarm garage heating while still wearing wet clothes. Your cardigan clung uncomfortably at your sleeves. Your hair had started to dry into waves you were not sure you had approved. Your lipstick, by some act of divine intervention, had survived.
You thanked Logan’s father twice.
Then turned to Logan, handing him a small piece of paper from your purse. He looked at it curiously, the cardstock seemed to be perfectly ruffled at the edges, in the centre was looped handwriting that had your full name and number, along with a doodle of a… was that a goat?
He recalls seeing something similar in a vintage shop in town, tucked away from the general college crowd, the old lady at the till had chirped at him when he picked up the reminiscent stack of cards, “those are calling cards sweetpea, people used to leave ‘em for each other before all of this here, tikkytoky business.” Logan had smiled at her and left without a rogue thought.
For a second, the two of you stood in the garage bay beside Cherry, the rain still hammering against the roof, the air smelling of motor oil, wet asphalt, and your perfume lingering in the warm shop air. You noticed how comical he looked in front of you, studying the calling card in his hands, which looked more like doll’s furniture between his fingers.
Nana had started your interest in them, bringing down a large, oak box of what she called, “tinder on paper”. You fashioned the one in his hand by yourself, taking joy in the crafts project- and ended up with a hefty amount of them in your bag at all times.
“Someone will call tomorrow,” he said, blinking out of his stupor. He flicked the calling card and ran his thumb along the waved edges.
“About Cherry?”
“About Cherry.”
You nodded, then hesitated, eyes dropping briefly to his hand,“Will it be you?”
Logan looked up.
“Calling, I mean,” you added quickly, as if the distinction mattered. “Only because you’ve met her now. And you were very nice to her. I think she’d prefer continuity of care.”
His mouth twitched. “Continuity of care.”
“Yes.”
“For your car.”
“For Cherry.”
Logan nodded slowly, thumb still moving along the edge of the card like it needed his full attention,“I might be in class,” he said.
“Oh. Of course.” You nodded immediately, too quickly, like you had not felt the smallest pinch of disappointment.
You’d only known each other for 45 minutes. There was a very slim chance he'd consider calling you in the middle of his presumably busy day, just to give you an update about your chevy, “That’s fine. Someone else can call. I’m sure elder Mechanic is very capable.”
Logan scratched lightly at his brow, poorly hiding his bashful amusement, “Elder Mechanic?”
“Your father,” you clarified. “I didn’t want to be rude and call him old Mechanic.”
“Thoughtful.”
“I try.”
He turned the card between his fingers once more. “I’ll call if I can.”
Your face brightened before you could stop it, “Good,” you said softly. You looked at Cherry one last time, reached out to pat the side of her hood, then seemed to realise Logan was watching and immediately straightened. “She’ll like that.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“A little.”
“That’s okay.” You smiled then, bright and sudden and unfair. “I’m very funny.”
You were. Unfortunately for him.
The cab driver honked once outside, impatient as he waited in the cold, and you startled slightly.
“Oh. Right.”
You stepped backward, then stopped.
“Thank you, Logan.”
It was the first time you had said his name. It sounded different coming from you, in your voice, from your pretty, painted lips.
He did not like how much he noticed that.
“No problem.”
You hesitated, then added, “And sorry for dripping on your floor.”
“Our floor’s seen worse.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
You smiled again.
Then you were gone, ducking under the umbrella his father had insisted you take, hurrying toward the cab in the rain with your purse clutched against your chest and your wet hair bouncing against your shoulders.
Logan stood in the open garage doorway and watched until the cab pulled out of the lot.
He had no reason to.
Cherry was still in the bay behind him, ticking softly as the engine cooled. His father had already gone back inside, he could hear him and his brother chattering. The rain was blowing against his boots, and he was tired, and he had practice in the morning, and there were at least six logical things he could be doing that did not involve staring after a girl whose car had coughed dramatically into his life and then refused to leave quietly.
Still, he stood there, rotating the calling card long after the lot emptied again and the cab’s taillights disappeared into the rain. It was when the only sound remaining was water against concrete and the faint hum of the shop lights behind him, that his father’s voice came from the office.
“You coming in?”
Logan blinked.
Then he looked back at Cherry.
The car sat under the shop lights, red paint glossy from the rain, ridiculous little strawberry air freshener still hanging from the mirror.
He should have been thinking about the alternator, or the wiring, or the fact that he had an early morning ahead of him. Instead, for some morbid reason, he brought the card to his nose- curious if it was the entity still emanating the scent of cherries around him. Sure enough, the sweet scent enveloped him once again.
In fact, he was sure the entire garage still smelled faintly like rain and cherries.
Logan exhaled.
“Yeah,” he called.
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