Page 59 of Down Bad

He’s back under the hood.

This goes on for some time. I start growing closer, leaning my head over the engine, too, propping my elbows on the edge. Diego shows no sign that he minds the proximity.

It’s good, because I’m enjoying it.

A lot.

Maybe so is he.

He doesn’t even say anything one time, holding his hand out without looking. I already know to give him the other tool. Then back in he goes. I think I even follow what he’s trying to do, even if I can’t be asked to save my life knowing the names of any piece of the engine he’s working on.

It turns out passing someone tools can be a conversation all on its own.

Ten.

Ratchet.

Thirteen.

Hold this.

Thirteen again.

I catch myself looking over at him instead of the engine a few times, lost in the intense focus of his eyes on the project.

The way his face works when he thinks.

How he mutters at stubborn bolts.

The wrinkle between his eyebrows when something refuses to cooperate.

How he wipes his hands before touching the next tool.

Even if everything’s already kinda greasy.

“Wanna give it a try?” asks Diego.

His first actual question in what feels like hours catches me by surprise. I look at the engine. “Uh, try what?”

“The car. Key’s in it already. Give it a turn.”

Oh, of course. I come around, then decide for some reason to reach in through the window to turn the key. It’s an awkward and farther-away endeavor than I anticipated, and before I know it, I lose my footing and fall into the car with an unflattering yelp.

The sound that follows is one I’ve never heard before.

Diego’s laughter.

An actual, honest-to-God laugh.

When I finally pry myself free from the car window, I find him quickly having regained his composure, back to his usual statue face with just a twinkle in his eyes betraying the laughter he just let out. I crack a smile, shake my head, and let myself into the car the proper way—by actually opening the damned door—and give it a go. Rumble. Grumble. Cough, sputter, spit.

Wheeze. Sigh.

“Kill it.”

I stop turning the key and crane my head out. Diego grips the edge of the hood, staring down at his mortal nemesis, squinting at it with intense thought. “Not today,” he mutters half to himself.

I don’t know if it’s sitting in this car, or him allowing me in his space without putting up as much of a fight, but I feel included somehow in his frustration, like for once, it’s us versus something else, not versus each other.