Page 18 of Fall Over You

I roll my eyes and look away. "You never change."

"It's called being reliable. People like that about me." She peers over at the car in the other bay, but doesn’t say anything. It’s the Chrysler LeBaron that is my perpetual project. I had it in high school and a while thereafter, then sold it when I wanted my truck. But after CJ left, I was in a really low spot, and all I wanted was to go back to a time before things got complicated. So even though it was the last thing I should have been spending money on, I tracked down the LeBaron and bought it back.

I told myself if I got done with Becca's truck before eleven, I could treat myself to some work on the LeBaron. I have early mornings with Ellie, but sleep and I have never been well-acquainted. I basically have to work until I can’t think anymore. Otherwise, my brain will just keep working the second I lie flat.

It's almost midnight. I missed my window.

“What’s got you burning the midnight oil?" she asks, looking at where I work under the hood of her truck.

"Trying to get you back on the road. I told Dusty you had your car in my shop and he freaked out about how you’re getting around.”

“Hmm,” she sniffs, pulling her phone out of her pocket to look at it. “Guess that’s why he’s called me fifty times tonight.”

“How were you about to get home?"

"Didn't I tell you about T-Bone? She's just⁠—“

I grind my teeth and scowl at her. “Rebecca."

“Fine,” she huffs. “I still engage in the ancient art form of bike riding."

If I had a blood pressure cuff on, the measurement would break the damn needle.

"On these roads? At night?" I search her hands like they'll give me the answer. "Where is your helmet?"

She tips her head to the side, shaking out her hair. "I like the wind in my hair."

"Oh my god," I breathe.

"Still didn't answer why you're up working so late. Usually Dusty can’t talk you into anything. Stubborn as a mule.”

I level her with a look. “Takes one to know one.”

She sticks her tongue out. “Answer the question.”

“Just got a lot on my plate," I say.

She scoffs. “Your dad doesn’t seem bothered. He was at the bar.”

“Yeah, Dad’s not bothered by much in the work department.”

Becca cocks a brow at me. “What do you mean?”

I chew my lip and rub my fingers on a rag, keeping my gaze there. “Dad slowed down a lot. I need to hire somebody else, but I can’t really afford to pay somebody else right now.”

I hear rather than see the soft pop of Becca’s bubble gum, something she does when she’s thinking. I could flash through hundreds of frames in my mind where I’ve caught her doing that: listening to music in her room, plucking flowers out of the grass around her mamaw’s trailer, and years later, arranging flowers at the farmer’s market and checking her work, head tilted to the side while a pink bubble appeared between her lips. “Could you get a loan?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve tried. Never enough collateral.”

She hums. “For me, it’s always bad credit.”

“You got that farm for free. What do you need money for?” This is a big admission, proof that I actually listen to what Dusty says about Becca.

“Silly boy,” she says. “I have to actually get the farm to make money. Which, as you likely know, doesn’t grow on trees. I need to get people out using the farm and buying the things I grow. And it all comes back to that dumb phrase, ‘You have to spend money to make money.’”

“Don’t I know it,” I agree. “I could get my parts so much cheaper if I could order in bulk. But again, not enough collateral.”

“And shit credit,” she says, pointing to herself. “Makes the interest rate ridiculous.”