Chapter Three: The Fine Art of Mechanical Failure
2280 Words
"The shark was entirely CGI, Maisie. It didn’t even have real teeth."
"It had three rows of teeth, Mommy. And it ate the boat. You can’t make a fake shark eat a real boat."
"You can if you have a hundred-million-dollar budget and a room full of guys in California drinking cold brew," I said, leaning over the steering wheel of Gerald as we idled at the red light on Elm Street. It was seven in the evening, the sky fading into a bruised, velvety purple. I was wearing a pair of straight-leg charcoal denim, a thick cream cotton long-sleeve tee, and an oversized black utility jacket with the sleeves rolled up to my forearms. Casual, functional, entirely devoid of silk. Maisie was in her little denim jacket, her curls pulled back into a messy high ponytail, still holding an empty tub of popcorn like a prized possession.
"I think the shark was real," she concluded, staring out the window with absolute conviction. "And I think he was just hungry."
"Valid economic theory," I murmured.
I took my foot off the brake as the light turned green. Gerald gave a low, wet thunk.
I pressed the gas. The engine let out a pathetic, metallic wheeze—the sound a lawnmower makes right before it goes to the great landscaping yard in the sky. The dashboard lights flickered twice, turned a sickly shade of orange, and then the entire console went entirely black.
We coasted to a halt right under a sputtering streetlamp, three blocks away from the movie theater.
"Mommy?" Maisie asked, the pop of her bubblegum cutting through the sudden, heavy silence of the car. "Is Gerald tired?"
"Gerald is actively dying, bug," I said, dropping my forehead against the steering wheel with a quiet groan. I tried turning the key. Nothing. Not even a click. "Okay. Team meeting. Plan A was driving home and watching a cartoon. Plan B is currently non-existent because Uncle Casey is in New York for an accounting seminar and Grandpa doesn't answer his phone past six PM because he thinks the cellular waves disrupt his sleep."
"What about Daddy?"
I stared at the dark dashboard. Daddy.
Calling Jax was always a calculated risk. It meant opening a door I spent most of my week keeping firmly padlocked. But it was getting chilly, the rain from earlier had left the air damp and biting, and I had a six-year-old whose popcorn high was about to crash.
Ten minutes later, the massive, yellow-and-black tow truck from Miller’s Auto Body pulled up behind us, its amber lights rotating lazily against the wet pavement. Jax climbed down from the cab. He was wearing his standard uniform—rough brown canvas work pants, a heavy gray thermal shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his tattooed forearms, and a backwards baseball cap pinning down his dark curls.
He walked up to my driver’s side window, leaning his hands on the frame. He smelled like rain, cold metal, and WD-40.
"You know, Hayes," he said, that slow, infuriating smirk cutting across his face. "Most people just check the oil. You don't have to wait until the alternator literally explodes to call me."
"It didn't explode, Jaxson. It ceased to function with dignity," I said, rolling my eyes as I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Can you fix it?"
"I can tow it to the shop and look at it," he said, shifting his gaze to the back seat. "Hey, kiddo. Did the shark get you?"
"No, Gerald died instead!" Maisie beamed, completely thrilled by the drama.
Miller’s Auto Body was located on the industrial edge of town, a massive corrugated-iron garage that sat right next to a small, neatly painted two-bedroom house. The garage smelled like old tires, gasoline, and heavy grease.
Jax backed Gerald into the main bay, unhooked the chains, and immediately rolled a black stool over to the open hood. Maisie had already claimed a corner of the office, sitting on a vinyl chair with a box of crayons he’d dug out of a desk drawer.
I stood by the vending machine, my hands tucked into the pockets of my utility jacket, watching him work. His back was broad, his shoulders moving with the easy, practiced confidence of someone who understood exactly how machines worked.
Then, the side door of the garage clicked open.
Victoria walked in. She was wearing a soft, pastel-pink cashmere sweater that looked like a cloud, skinny white jeans that remained impossibly clean in a mechanic's shop, and her blonde waves were perfectly intact. She was holding a small tray with two mugs of steaming tea.
"Jax, honey, I heard the truck come back," she said, her voice like spun sugar. She walked straight past the grease-stained counters, entirely unbothered by the environment, and stopped right beside him.
Jax looked up from the engine, his expression instantly softening. "Hey. Thanks."
"I brought the chamomile. You've been coughing since this morning," she murmured. She reached out, her small, perfectly manicured hand resting gently on the back of his neck, her fingers trailing into his dark hair. Then, she leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. Jax didn't pull away; he reached up with his clean hand and touched her waist, a small, private smile passing between them.
It was an entirely normal, domestic, happy moment between a husband and a wife.
And inside my chest, something sharp and ugly twisted, hard.
God, Chloe, stop it, I scolded myself fiercely, forcing my eyes away to look at a calendar on the wall. Lock it down. It’s been six years. You don't want a relationship with him. You don't want the high school drama back. You moved on.
But the truth—the heavy, annoying reality that I never admitted to anyone—was that nobody ever really gets comfortable watching their first love, the father of their child, kiss another woman. I didn't want him back. I truly didn't. But Jax would always hold this permanent, complicated, deeply carved-out space in my heart, and watching someone else occupy the rest of his life was like looking at a photograph of a house you used to live in, completely redecorated by someone else.
"Oh! Chloe, hi!" Victoria noticed me, her green eyes widening with that cheerful, snow-globe energy. "I didn't see you back there in the shadows. Is Gerald okay?"
"Gerald is on life support," I said, forcing my best, most approachable retail smile onto my face. "But Jax is working his magic."
"He really is a wizard with engines," Victoria smiled, leaning her head against Jax’s shoulder for a second. "Anyway, I'll let you guys work. Jax, don't stay out here too late, the roast is in the oven."
"Ten minutes," Jax said, his dark eyes flicking to me for a brief, unreadable second before returning to his wrench.
Five minutes later, Jax let out a grunt and hit the side of the engine block. "Try it now."
I walked over to the driver’s seat, reached in, and turned the key. Gerald instantly roared to life, the dashboard glowing a steady, healthy green.
"Loose connection on the battery terminal," Jax said, wiping his hands on a rag as he walked me to the driver's side. He looked down at me, the smirk completely gone, replaced by that quiet, steady weight. "You're good to go, Chlo."
"Thanks, Jax," I said softly. "How much do I—"
"Don't start," he cut me off, his voice low. "Just take the kid home."
"Mommy, my stomach is making the shark sound," Maisie announced from the passenger seat ten minutes later.
"The shark sound?"
"The hungry one."
I looked at the dashboard clock. Nine-fifteen. "Alright, bug. Graduation celebration part two. We are stopping at Scoop’s."
Scoop’s was the only ice cream parlor in Woodridge that stayed open past nine. It was a retro, neon-lit joint with black-and-white checkered floors and a heavy glass door that always stuck in the humidity.
As we approached the entrance, an elderly couple—Mr. and Mrs. Gable from down the lane—were shuffling outward, arms linked, moving at the speed of molasses. I instinctively stepped ahead, grabbing the heavy brass handle and swinging the door wide open, holding it flat against the brick wall so they could navigate the threshold.
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Gable patted my arm sweetly.
"Of course," I smiled.
Right as they cleared the frame, a shadow fell over the doorway. A guy had been walking up right behind them, almost colliding with the old couple before pausing. He was tall—probably six-foot-one—with a sharp, structured jawline covered in a neat shadow of stubble, and dark, intelligent eyes hidden behind a pair of thick, tortoiseshell glasses. He was wearing a dark olive-green corduroy button-down shirt over a white tee and dark wash jeans.
He stopped, his eyes locking onto mine through his lenses, a genuinely amused, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He looked at me, then at the door I was still holding open like a formal doorman.
"Thanks, my royal queen," he said, his voice smooth, carrying a dry, melodic rhythm. He stepped through the threshold, pausing right in my personal space, his eyes doing a quick, appreciative sweep of my charcoal denim and oversized utility jacket. He tilted his head, his smirk widening. "You open doors for a lot of guys, or am I just exceptionally lucky on a Tuesday?"
I raised an eyebrow, my fast-talking tongue instantly kicking into gear. "Only the ones who look like they're about to run over senior citizens, counselor. It’s a public safety hazard."
He let out a short, warm laugh, leaning slightly against the doorframe. "Fair point. I'm Brody." He extended a hand, his eyes locking onto mine with a sharp, magnetic spark that felt entirely new, entirely clean, and completely free of the six-year weight I’d been carrying around all evening.
"Chloe," I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and warm.
"And who's the assistant manager?" Brody asked, looking down at Maisie, who was watching him with wide, curious blue eyes.
"I'm Maisie! I'm the kid!"
Brody blinked, his eyebrows flying up behind his glasses. He looked at me, his eyes doing a quick, sharp reassessment that was entirely respectful but completely intrigued. "Your kid? Wow. Okay. I officially apologize for the terrible deduction skills. I just moved to town two weeks ago to join the law firm on Main Street, and I was starting to think Woodridge was entirely populated by retirees. It's nice to see I was wrong."
"Oh, we have deer too," I said smoothly, letting go of the door as we all moved into the neon-lit parlor. "But they have worse banter."
"Clearly," Brody smiled, lingering for a second as I walked toward the counter. He pulled a neat, professional business card out of his wallet and slid it onto the laminate surface. Brody Vance. Attorney at Law. Written on the back in messy, hasty ink was a cell phone number. "If you ever need someone to hold a door for you for a change... or just a cup of coffee that doesn't come from a vending machine?"
I looked at the card, then up at his warm, expectant smile. "I might hold you to that, Brody."
"I hope you do," he said, giving a polite nod to Maisie before heading to a corner booth with his laptop.
Five minutes later, Maisie and I were back in Gerald, the interior of the car smelling like the mint chocolate chip waffle cone she was happily dismantling. I dropped Brody's card into my leather tote bag, a strange, light feeling bouncing around my chest.
I put the car in drive, pulling out of the neon-lit parking lot. "So, what do we think of the lawyer, bug?"
"He called you a queen," Maisie said judicially, her mouth ringed with green ice cream. "But he didn't have a crown, which is weird."
"Extremely suspicious," I agreed.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated aggressively in the cupholder. The screen lit up with a contact name that made me freeze.
Bianca.
My older sister hadn't called me on the phone since 2024, preferring to route all communications through our mother or via passive-aggressive group texts. I swiped the screen, hitting the speaker button as I kept my eyes on the dark road.
"Bianca? Is everything okay?"
"Chloe," her voice came through the speaker, but the usual bored, bratty, valley-girl cadence was completely gone. Her voice was sharp, breathless, and trembling with a terrifying, raw panic I had never heard from her in my entire life. "Are you home yet?"
"No, I'm driving back from town, I have Maisie—"
"Hurry up," Bianca snapped, her breath hitching over what sounded like a muffled sob. "I'm sitting on your apartment porch. Chloe, please, just hurry. I need you. I really, really need you."
The line went dead.
I stared at the black phone screen, the light feeling from the ice cream parlor instantly vanishing as cold dread settled deep into my stomach. I hit the gas, Gerald's brand-new alternator humming loudly into the dark night.
- Writer
