I punch in the code to open our garage, continuously checking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being followed or watched. My paranoia skyrocketed after the first night when the reporter asked me to talk. Most of the cameras are clustered around an officer talking from the center of the street. They’ve blocked the view of the Trombleys’ house from reporter cameras with a huge crime scene truck, and there’s a little more clearance in front of my driveway.
“My dad says by tonight they’ll have most of the media staged near the corner.”
“Jesus!” I grip my chest and leap backward several feet at the sound of Eleanor’s voice. I was so wrapped up in the press conference behind me that I wasn’t paying attention to the garage door rising in front of me—or the girl occupying the same green folding chair she was in last night.
“Sorry.” Eleanor’s pale pink lips stretch to one side and curve into an apologetic smile that only lasts a second.
Under my sternum, my heart pulses with enough force to crack the bone. I flatten my palm over the flannel button-down in an attempt to calm the thunder underneath.
“It’s fine. Yeah, I just . . . How?” I stammer through several thoughts in a few nonsensical words, then end up pointing at the chair she’s folded herself up in. She looks down at the ground around her, almost as though she’s floating on a life raft being circled by sharks.
“I saw your grandpa out getting the mail. I asked if I could sit in here a little while, away from the noise, ya know?” Her eyes lift briefly then drift away from mine, her attention again lost to the cold garage space around her.
“You wanted to be in here, with the lights off?” I’m an idiot. Of all things to utter, this is what I say.
“They were off?” She lifts her chin and squints at the now glowing bulbs at the end of the garage opener mounted on the ceiling. She isn’t being sarcastic. I can tell; my sarcasm meter is well-honed.
“They come on with the door . . . but they weren’t . . .” I realize the inner-workings of our garage door wiring isn’t important and move to the button to close the door again, switching on the real lights so we don’t end up in the dark—again. Maybe that’s what she wants though, to hide in the dark.
Eleanor is close to my height, probably two or three inches shorter than my six feet. I only know this from standing behind her in the same lunch line at school. She appears so much smaller now, one leg folded under her body, the other bent with her arms hugging her knee close to her chest. It’s amazing how similar all of the Trombley girls look, especially through the years. It’s as if Morgan handed down her shape and hair styles and expressions to Eleanor, who then left the small lanky build of her youth for Addy to fill. From the back, I could easily fool myself that it’s Addy sitting in this chair, the way her long double braids rest heavy on the back of her deep purple hoodie. A slight shift in Eleanor’s profile, though, makes it obvious there’s a mature beauty to her cheeks and lips. I’m so used to seeing that mouth smile, and right now it’s far from it.
“I’m really sorry, by the way.”
I am still an idiot.
I scrunch my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. It’s such a cliché thing to say, and probably the last thing she wants to hear. The minute I hear my own voice I wish I could eat the words. What else is there to say, though? Welcome to my garage?
“Thank you, and it’s okay. I know it’s awkward.” She’s kind enough to let me off the hook. We both shrug when our eyes meet, and I drop my bag from my shoulder, setting it on the ground near the entry into the house.
My fingers tingle nervously because Eleanor is staring at my hands. I shove them deep into my pockets and form fists, pushing down to stretch my arms that now feel the brunt of her stare.
“I can go—”
“No!” I bark out before she can excuse herself. She eases back into the chair, maybe a little startled from my quick response.
“Sorry, now I’m scaring you.” I breathe out a short laugh and it draws another brief smile from her.
“It’s only fair,” she jokes. My chest shakes with another laugh.
It gets so quiet suddenly that I can hear the small crackling sounds our house makes when the heat is running inside. My eyes dart around for something to do or an idea for something new to say, but before I utter my next dumb thing, Eleanor fills the silence.
“So that’s really yours now?” She gestures toward the Bronco. I move to the passenger door and grip the handle, peering inside at the well-worn seats.
“Guess so.” It’s a far cry from the Bronco in that photo. I’m half tempted to show it to Eleanor, but it feels presumptuous somehow, that she would be interested.
“It’s pretty cool. I mean, it’s no green Volkswagen Beetle, but…”
I smile at her joke.
“I always thought your car was cool,” I respond, turning back to face her. I’m surprised when I see she’s stood from the chair and is moving toward me.
“It’s a manual, and the clutch is sticky. I wear my knee brace more when I drive than when I tumble on the track.” Her head cocks to the side as she wears a wry smile.
“Well, this is an automatic, but that doesn’t mean it runs. I may need to borrow your knee brace for the times I’m going to have to push it,” I joke. This time, her laughter makes an airy, sweet sound.
“Can I get in?” Her eyes glance to the side, to my grip on the door handle. I’m pretty sure my palm is sweating.
“Sure, I guess.” I give the interior another inspection. It’s pretty dusty inside. “I can’t guarantee you won’t take a spring to the back of your thigh, but . . .”
I pull the door wide enough for Eleanor to lift herself inside. She stands on the running board, which thank God doesn’t break off with her step, and peers inside the cabin for a few seconds before sliding fully inside.
“It’s roomy. I bet you could camp in this thing.” Her gaze moves from the driver’s seat to the large back, the second row of seats folded down in the back. The carpet from the very back is covered in grease stains, probably from my dad’s old tools and his last attempts to get this thing running.
“What do you say? Should we take it for a pretend drive?”
“Huh?” I startle, meeting her waiting gaze. She leans her head to the left, lips parted in a soft smile that is void of her reality. How could I not indulge?
I nod and rush around the front of the Bronco to the driver’s side. This door is a little tricky, so I put my foot on the running board to brace myself as I pull the handle open, a trick Jake and I figured out last night. I grab the handle inside and pull myself in, wishing I could pop in the key and cruise away with the girl of my dreams. But the key is on my desk inside, and turning it in this ignition won’t do a damn thing anyhow.
Eleanor pulls her door closed, so I do the same. I grip the wheel and straighten my arms, leaning my weight back in my seat. I’ve seen my dad sit like this. It’s one of the few early memories I have of him tinkering on this thing, before his real work took over.
I sense Eleanor’s weight shift and feel her eyes on me before I turn to confirm that they in fact are. She’s managed to tuck her long leg under her body again, her bare knee popping out through the rip in her jeans.