Grace
Jinx looked down at the two brown bottles in his hands, then back up at me. The mischievous grin on his face widened until his eyes were practically squinting.
"You’re obsessed with the age thing," he said, stepping over the front wheel of his lime-green bike. He grabbed a screwdriver from the workbench, flipped the metal caps off both bottles with a quick, practiced jerk of his wrist, and offered one to me. "Does it really matter if I’m twenty-four or seventy-four? I still make this bike look good." He said tapping the bike with his elbow.
I stared at the bottle, then at his smooth, completely unwrinkled face. He looked like a guy who still got carded at grocery stores.
"Seventy-four?" I repeated, my brain stalling hard on the math. "You're seventy-four years old?"
"Seventy-two
