Page 91 of Secondhand Soul

“I think we wash the dishes.”

“Oh. Crap.”

“And then we can go back to the apartment and have wild sex to distract ourselves?”

Lazarus brightens. “You’re so smart. I love you.”

I beam at him as we walk back inside. “Likewise.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Lazarus

“The shop is closed, but the pumps aren’t.” The responsibility feels... good. Weird, but good.

I get up and kiss Victoria, who looks like a sleepy goddess, her long limbs half-covered by the tangled sheets.

I want to go back to bed, but I can’t. December 26th. Manny would be open, because someone might need help, might need gas. In a town where everything is on the highway except for one station with a couple of pumps, Manny can’t afford to be selfish.

And unlike the prick that I am, he genuinely adores helping people.

You are Lazarus Finklestein. Yeah, it doesn’t sound like some badass revenant. It sounds like some bookkeeper named by a mother with a Bible fixation, but whatever. You are Manny and Rhea’s son. Victoria’s lover. Her chosen man, her mate, her husband—one day.

You have a baby sister fighting for her life.

You go be the man they would have raised you to be. The man Victoria believes you are, that you fought to be.

Uniform on. Teeth brushed. Coffee in hand. Snow shovel ready. “I’m gonna go clear paths to the pumps and text Manny and Rhea.”

“I’m going to make us some breakfast in the little kitchen in back of the shop and start on the end-of-month bills, plus check the online booking system and see if anyone made an appointment. Then, I have to figure out how to change the availability. You’re down a tech without Manny. We have to cut the appointment spaces in half.” Victoria has the same “tackle it” energy I do, feet smacking onto the floor and already propelling her forward. “I need to get in touch with Fia and tell her I’ll return the RV, too. If it’s okay that I stay with you.” Her guided-missile energy dips and she hesitates, eyes seeking mine.

“It’s not just okay. It’s required. I can’t do this without you, Vic.” I kiss her and hurry outside.

She might think that I mean running the shop.

I mean everything.

MANNY MAKES THIS LOOK easy. He never snaps at a customer. Never scowls, insults, or uses his giant-like strength to make someone feel small. Or to punch them in the face.

It’s not that the people who need gas or washer fluid or air in their tires are bad or annoying.

I just don’t like talking to most people.

I don’t trust most people. I have a good reason not to, but since they don’t know that, I have to try to be civil.

I manage okay on Friday. We have the weekend, keep the pumps running, watch television, and work ourselves into a new routine, content just to be together.

It’s after Monday and Tuesday, after three days of actually running the garage without Manny, that I realize this dealing with people shit is killing me.

I feel like I’m probably failing. I don’t have Manny’s touch, or friendly manner, or that booming laugh that makes you feel like everything will be okay.

The only thing that helps is Victoria staying with me, fumbling through orders and billing, trying not to bug Rhea more than once a day.

By the third day, I’m ready to stomp on Carl McAllister, here to visit some relative or other, who drove his car into a high curb at thirty miles an hour and now needs a tire, wheel, rim, and a tie rod.

Everything is cheaper back where he comes from; that’s his mantra: “I looked up the price of the parts, and you can get them cheaper from insert-cheap-overseas-company-I’ve-never-heard-of here.”

He’s still arguing the cost of the cheapest tires we have at five-thirty, and he’s adamant that we put it in writing that the car will be done tomorrow, New Year’s Eve, because he has a big party to get to in Erie.

Don’t punch his face. Don’t bite off a finger, even if he keeps jabbing the air too close to your face.