Friction and Fire

The Wedding Approaches Part 1

The hum of the shop is a lifeline. Every ratchet click, every hiss of the compressor, every familiar curse from the back bay—Rhonda hangs onto the sounds like she’d drown without them. It’s barely dawn and already she’s elbow-deep in an ‘82 Shovelhead, three-day-old coffee in hand and a to-do list longer than her patience. She should be happy. The business is steady, her hands are steady, the city outside is just as mean and wonderful as ever. But for the last few days, a different kind of noise haunts her. It’s Vondrel. His voice, his face, the electric tension he leaves behind after every encounter, like the static charge before a lightning strike. She hates it. She hates him. She hates herself for thinking about him even now, with the world’s most temperamental camshaft locked between her knees and two customer bikes waiting for overhaul by end-of-week.

A wrench slips, slicing the back of her knuckle. She swears, loud and inventive, and dabs the cut on the tail of her shirt. The blood is nothing, but the frustration is real. She throws her weight into the breaker bar, sending a bolt flying across the shop where it pings off the concrete, ricochets off the far wall, and lands near the busted radio. She watches it roll, wonders if everything in her life is destined to come loose at the worst possible moment.

The side door creaks. Not Jimmy—he’d make an entrance like he owns the place. This is a softer sound, hesitant, almost polite. Rhonda squares her jaw. “Shop’s closed for another hour,” she calls without looking up.

A voice floats in, quiet but stubborn. “I brought the dress.”

She grits her teeth. “Of course you did.”

Alicia stands in the doorway, framed by morning sunlight and the swirling dust motes. She’s a study in contrasts: her hair is wild, her eyes soft, but she’s wrapped in a sensible parka and clutching the garment bag like a shield. There’s a pink box balanced on top—bakery donuts, a bribe Rhonda sees right through.

Alicia nudges the door closed with her hip. “You haven’t answered your phone,” she says, a note of accusation in her voice.

Rhonda wipes her hands on the cleanest towel she can find, which is not clean at all. “Didn’t have anything to say.”

“You never do,” Alicia retorts, but her eyes are gentle as she sets the donuts on the bench. “Thought maybe you’d be excited.”

“About being trussed up like a show poodle?” Rhonda scoffs, peering into the box and selecting a chocolate glazed. “Can’t wait.”

Alicia unzips the garment bag. The dress is there, blood-red and sleek, a color that would look killer if Rhonda wasn’t convinced it would kill her first. She frowns. “That’s… definitely a dress.”

“Jimmy says you’d look hot in it,” Alicia teases, hanging the bag on a protruding brake lever. “He’s not wrong.”

Rhonda snorts, licking chocolate from her thumb. “Jimmy’s idea of fashion is a T-shirt with fewer than three holes.”

Alicia grins, and for a moment, it’s easy between them, just two sisters taking cheap shots and eating donuts in a grease-stained kingdom. But it doesn’t last. It never does.

“I know you hate this stuff,” Alicia says, voice softening. “But it’s my wedding. Can you… just pretend, for me?”

Rhonda picks at the donut, not meeting her sister’s gaze. She wants to say no, wants to make a joke, wants to do anything but care. “Fine. But I’m not wearing heels.”

“You don’t have to. Boots are fine.” Alicia’s relief is a physical thing. “Try it on?”

Rhonda groans, dramatic, but she can’t deny the plea in Alicia’s eyes. She grabs the garment bag with her least oily hand and disappears into the grimy bathroom.

The door barely latches. She can hear Alicia humming, moving around the shop, probably fussing with the donuts or wiping off a bench for her to sit. Rhonda strips down, careful not to snag the lining or stain it with engine grime. She tugs the dress over her hips, wriggles it up, and tries to zip the side seam. It’s not a disaster, but it’s not what she expected. It fits. Too well.

She glares at herself in the cracked mirror. The woman staring back is still her—same broad shoulders, same bruised knuckles, same stubborn tilt to the chin—but softened, reshaped. The dress is sleeveless, tight in the right places, the skirt hitting just above the knee. She almost looks… normal. It’s a joke, but it’s a good one.

She glares harder, trying to hate it. The problem is, it looks good. The real problem is the tiny part of her that wonders if Vondrel would notice.

Rhonda shoves that thought down, hard. She runs water over her hands, dries them on the inside hem, and stomps back into the shop. “There. Happy?”

Alicia turns, eyes going wide. “Oh my god.”

Rhonda scowls. “Shut up.”

“No, really. You look—” Alicia bites her lip, searching for the right word. “Incredible. Like, actually incredible.”

Rhonda rolls her eyes. “You gonna cry on me?”

“Not until the wedding,” Alicia promises. “Maybe not even then.”

Rhonda smirks, but the moment sours as she catches the worry etched into Alicia’s face. Her sister’s always been easy to read—every feeling writes itself in the lines around her mouth, the angle of her shoulders, the way she blinks when she’s trying to keep it together.

Rhonda perches on a stool, picks at a bit of donut stuck to her palm. “What’s wrong?”

Alicia hesitates, then sits beside her, close but not touching. “What if his family doesn’t show? What if they try to stop it?”

Rhonda snorts. “They’ll show. If only to sneer at the ‘help’ marrying into their bloodline.”

Alicia’s hands twist in her lap, nervous and delicate. “You think it’s a mistake?”

“No,” Rhonda says, too fast, too harsh. She softens, tries again. “I think it’s a risk. But you’re not stupid. And Mark’s… he’s a good guy.”

Alicia sighs. “I just want it to go right. You know?”

Rhonda remembers the lean years, the years of empty cupboards and empty promises, and the promise she made to herself that her family would never be hurt again. She wants to wrap Alicia in bubble wrap, wants to put a wrench through the head of anyone who’d threaten her. But all she can do is sit, and wait, and hope.

“It’ll go right,” Rhonda says, trying to make it true. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Alicia leans in, resting her head on Rhonda’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

Rhonda stiffens, not used to this kind of contact, but she lets it happen. Lets the silence fill up with something like love. Lets herself remember how much she missed having Alicia in her life, how much she missed having anyone at all.

Alicia pulls back, wiping her nose with a laugh. “You’ll be there, right? Not just for the food.”

Rhonda grins. “I’ll be there. Might even wear the dress. Might even dance.”

Alicia beams, and the tension in her eyes fades, replaced by the optimism that’s always made her reckless and irresistible.

Rhonda stands, stretching her arms over her head, trying to shake out the nervous energy. “Better get out of this before I stain it.”

Alicia watches her go, her smile lingering in the dusty light.

In the bathroom, Rhonda stares at her reflection again, seeing the bruises, the half-healed cuts, the evidence of every fight and failure. But also the color in her cheeks, the way the dress makes her look like she belongs somewhere better than this. Maybe, she thinks, just maybe, she could. If she let herself.

She changes back into her coveralls, stuffs the dress into the bag, and zips it up tight. On the way out, she finds Alicia reorganizing the donuts so the box looks less sad.

“Hey,” Rhonda says, voice softer than she meant. “You’re gonna be fine. Mark’s an i***t, but he’d be an even bigger i***t to let anything mess this up.”

Alicia nods, hope flickering in her eyes. “Promise?”

Rhonda hesitates. She thinks of Vondrel, of the war that’s been brewing between them, of the way he looks at her, like he’s always one step from doing something reckless. “Promise,” she says, and means it.

As Alicia turns to go, Rhonda calls after her. “If the Lancasters pull any s**t, I’ll handle it.”

Alicia laughs, the sound light and free. “I know you will. You always do.”

The door closes behind her, leaving the shop quiet except for the tick of the cooling engine and the faint buzz of the radio. Rhonda looks at the dress, hanging like a dare on the brake lever. She lets herself wonder, just for a second, what it would be like to have something go right for once. To be wanted, to be chosen, to be loved—not in spite of the rough edges, but because of them.

She shakes her head, returns to the Shovelhead, and picks up the wrench.

But for the first time in days, the work doesn’t drown out the noise.

It gives it a place to belong.