Walk Away

“I know, I know,” I laugh, phone tucked between my shoulder and ear as I lift the bonnet of my car. Why do my cars always break? A bit like my relationships, really. Are all cars men? No, that can’t be true. My car is called Penny, and she’s definitely a girl. No—actually, she’s all woman. The feisty, hormonal, no-nonsense b***h. “Look, I kinda like this one. He seems… nice.” “Nice? Wow, totally blown away. He sounds great,” Tara retorts, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yes, nice. I know he’s a bit younger than me, but maybe that’s a good thing. The older ones didn’t exactly work out well, did they? And yeah, I know he has a bad boy attitude but… well, I wouldn’t like him if he didn’t. Let’s be real.” I straighten up and grab the bottle of oil that’s just robbed £50 from this weekend’s budget. “Anyway,” I continue, changing the subject under the guise of an update, “I’m just topping up Penny and I’ll be on my way. Should be with you in about an hour.” This is not a woman’s job, I think, and then immediately scold myself for even thinking it. Equality, remember? I glance around. A guy’s watching me. I smile and look exasperated at my poor car, flipping my long red hair back. Yep—he’s walking over. “Everything okay?” he asks, eyeing Penny like she’s on life support. “Ugh, oil leak. And I’m on a four-hour journey. Damn my best friend for living so far away! I’m just topping her up to hopefully get me there. I just… don’t know if it’s the right oil or where to put it.” I do know where it goes. I’m just stalling. It’s filthy under that bonnet and I’m wearing a brand-new white top—not exactly breakdown chic. He chuckles and takes the oil bottle from my hand, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He taps something on it as I watch his face—handsome, rugged. Fluffy dark hair and kind eyes with faint lines beside them, aging him in a good way. Men always age well, don’t they? So unfair. They just roll out of bed and still somehow manage to look better with age. Meanwhile, women are out here scheduling Botox between school runs. “Yeah, this is the right one,” he says. “Here, let me top it up for you.” “So, you’re travelling to see a friend? Anything nice planned?” “Erm, just some food and a nice catch-up,” I reply sweetly—code for getting absolutely shitfaced and slagging off everything and everyone. That’s the tradition when I trek from Cheshire to Devon. Every time we promise a ‘chilled one next time.’ We never do. Maybe Tara and I just aren’t built for chill. We’re barely into our thirties, we’re busy mums, and sometimes we just need a break. He slams the bonnet shut and wipes his hands on his jeans. Definitely work clothes. I feel zero guilt about making him do the dirty work. “Thanks so much,” I gush. “What would I have done without you?” “No problem. Take it easy. I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he says, looking me in the eye. “She?” I raise a brow, surprised at his gendering of Penny. “Yeah. Come on, all cars are female.” “Why?” I frown, reminded of my earlier theory that all cars were men. “I’m a car guy. They’re things of beauty and elegance,” he says, then glances back at Penny and laughs. “Even this old girl. Definitely female.” He gives her bonnet a gentle tap. “Interesting.” I glance at Penny, then back at him. This whole interaction is… interesting. “So, how far have you come this morning? Live far from here?” he asks, brushing off his jeans again. “About an hour. I live just off the M6 in Sandbach.” I can tell from his soft, slow Midlands accent that he’s probably local. “Is that too far for me to get your number?” he asks sheepishly, squinting slightly—maybe from the sun, maybe from nerves. “I’m afraid I’m spoken for,” I lie. It rolls off my tongue so easily, I shock myself. s**t. Maybe I do really like the nice guy. “Oh, I’m sorry… for me, that is,” he says with a chuckle, ruffling his hair and stepping back. “Hope you get on okay. Good luck!” he calls, heading for his van. I stand there, watching him walk away, chewing on my own reaction. Why did I say that? I never usually turn down a potential match. Especially one with kind eyes, a bit of an accent, and a willingness to get his hands dirty. I’ve been single for a year now, and my love life is basically a soap opera’s highlight reel. I keep telling myself that anyone I meet could be The One. I shake myself out of my thoughts and climb into Penny. Then I tap the second number on my call log. “Hey babe,” comes his southern drawl almost instantly. “Hey,” I say, smiling like an i***t. Oh, shitting s**t. I definitely like this one. But like I said to Tara… he does seem nice. Although don’t they all, at the start?