Grease and Coffee
916 Words
If I’m being honest, I didn’t plan to see her again.
I told myself she was just a random girl from a random night. Someone who’d pointed me to a repair shop, smiled at my joke, and vanished like most people do.
But the next morning, I found myself standing in front of Hart Repairs, holding a broken bike key like an i***t who didn’t know when to quit.
The shop looked like it had lived a dozen lives: red brick walls, a cracked window, and a sign that used to shine once but now only whispered Hart Repairs in fading paint.
The place smelled of oil, sweat, and history.
And then I heard her voice.
Careful with that wrench, Evan! You strip another bolt, and I’ll strip you of your phone for a week.
She stepped out from under a lifted car, grease smudged on her cheek, hair tied back, wearing a black tank top and coveralls that were rolled down to her waist.
She looked nothing like the girl from last night. This version of her was fierce, alive, and commanding.
When she saw me, her eyes narrowed. You lost or just stalking me?
I grinned. Depends. Are you fixing bikes today?
She crossed her arms. You’re the guy with the dead motorcycle. Ethan, right?
Yeah.
She wiped her hands on a rag and nodded to the corner. Evan’s busy, but I’ve got twenty minutes. Roll it in.
Watching Amelia work was like watching art happen in motion, rough, quick, and perfect in its own chaos.
She didn’t talk much while she worked, but when she did, her voice carried that sharp edge of someone who’s had to fight for every inch of peace.
So what do you do? she asked, eyes still on the bike.
Fix engines… sometimes.
Her brow arched. You mean you break them and then pretend to fix them?
I laughed. Something like that.
Hmm. She slid under the bike, tools clinking. You don’t have a mechanic’s hands.
I glanced down at my palms, soft, clean, definitely not the kind that turned bolts for a living.
I’m new, I said quickly.
She smirked. Clearly.
While she worked, I tried to learn her rhythm the way she focused completely, the little hums she made when she was deep in thought, the confidence that came from knowing exactly what she was doing.
Every move she made told a story.
Every scar on her fingers said she’d earned her strength.
So why’d you leave last night? I asked.
She slid out from under the bike and sat up, wiping her forehead. Work. I always leave when it’s time.
No boyfriend waiting up?
She gave me a flat look. If there was, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to wait.
Because you’d break him?
Because I don’t do complicated, she said. And I don’t do lies.
That one hit me like a wrench to the ribs.
I smiled, but it felt thin. Good rule.
She nodded. Best one I’ve got.
She fixed the bike in under an hour, charged me half what it was worth, and refused a tip.
When I insisted, she said, Save your money, rich boy.
I froze.
Excuse me?
She grinned. Relax. You’ve got that face like you’ve never worried about rent a day in your life.
If only she knew.
I wanted to tell her she was right that my rent was the size of her entire building but I didn’t. I just smiled.
Maybe I’m good at pretending.
She tossed me my keys. Then keep pretending. Just don’t get caught.
Over the next few weeks, I kept finding reasons to visit the shop.
A sputter in the engine. A weird sound in the brakes. Once, I even brought coffee; I didn’t need to thank her.
Each time, she saw through me and let me stay anyway.
Some days, we’d talk for hours after closing. She told me about her father, about how he’d built the shop from nothing, how he’d taught her everything before cancer took him.
She said she didn’t believe in luck, just hard work and not quitting.
I told her about “working with my hands and dealing with a strict boss, careful to twist the truth just enough to fit my lie.
She laughed easily, swore often, and never apologized for who she was.
And somewhere between grease stains and midnight coffee, I started to fall for her.
Not for her beauty, though she was stunning in that effortless, unfiltered way, but for her strength.
She was everything I wasn’t.
One night, when we closed the shop together, she leaned against the hood of a car and looked at me like she was trying to read something I hadn’t said.
Have you ever felt like you’re lying to yourself? She asked.
Every nerve in me went still.
Sometimes, I said.
What about?
That I deserve the people who trust me.
She didn’t respond. Just stared for a long moment before turning away.
You’ve got secrets, Ethan, she said quietly. I can smell them on you.
And then she smiled, faint but real. Just don’t make me regret letting you in.
That night, I lay awake in my small rented room, the one that cost less than my usual dinner and stared at the ceiling.
I thought about how I’d walked into her life to find something real.
And how the only real thing I’d found was the one person I was lying to the most.
- Writer
