I Helped My Friend’s Mom in the Garage, Then She Said, ‘Do You Want to Kiss Me?’. – Part 2

When I looked at her face, she was studying the rag like it was the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. But there was color in her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. They were little things, things that could be explained away, dismissed, forgotten. But they stuck to me like oil stains, impossible to wash off.

One afternoon, while wiping grease off an old vice that probably hadn’t been used since the Bush administration, the first one, she asked, “Evan, do you ever feel like you’re just floating through?” I looked up from the bench, confused. floating like you’re living but not really building anything.

 Just passing through the days waiting for something that doesn’t come. Like you’re watching your life happen instead of actually living it. She didn’t look at me when she said it. Just kept folding the rag in her hands over and over like it was a meditation or maybe a nervous habit she hadn’t kicked.

 Her voice was quiet, almost like she was talking to herself, like she’d forgotten I was there. I hesitated, not sure how honest to be then. Yeah. Yeah, I do. Sometimes it feels like everyone else got a map, and I’m just wandering around hoping I’ll recognize the right place when I get there. She nodded slow and thoughtful. That’s it exactly.

the waiting, the hoping something will change, but not knowing what that something is or how to make it happen. She paused, looked down at her hands. I used to have a plan, you know, meet someone, get married, have kids, run a business, check, check, check, check. But then she gestured vaguely at the garage, at her life, at everything that had gone differently than expected.

But then your husband, I started then stopped, not sure if I should finish. Yeah, she said simply. But even before that, if I’m honest, even when everything was going according to plan, I felt like I was floating, like I was playing a part in someone else’s life. She finally looked at me and her eyes were so vulnerable I had to resist the urge to reach out, to touch her hand, to offer some kind of comfort.

Is that terrible to say? That even when I had everything I was supposed to want, I still felt empty. No, I said firmly. It’s honest. Most people won’t admit it, but I think a lot of us feel that way. Like we’re following a script someone else wrote. She studied my face for a long moment. You’re very young to understand that.

 Or maybe I’m just the right age, I said. old enough to see the pattern, young enough to still think I can avoid it. Can you? She asked, and there was something in her voice. Hope maybe or challenge. I don’t know. Can you? She smiled then. Sad and beautiful. I’m 38 years old, Evan. Single mom, running a garage that barely breaks even.

 I think my pattern is pretty well set. You’re 38, I said. not dead. And you’re here talking to me about floating and patterns and emptiness. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s given up. She blinked, surprised, and then something shifted in her expression. She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time, like I’d just become three-dimensional instead of part of the background.

 “When did you become so wise?” she asked softly. “Tuesday,” I said, trying to lighten the moment. There was a sale on wisdom at Target. Buy one existential crisis. Get enlightenment half off. She laughed real and sudden, and the sound filled the garage, bounced off the walls, and settled into my chest, where I knew I’d keep it forever.

After that, she walked to the back without saying another word. But the question she’d asked lived in my head for days, bouncing around like a pinball. It was the first time she’d opened a door I hadn’t even known was there. Shown me a piece of herself that wasn’t just Derek’s mom or the competent garage owner or the widow making it work.

 One Thursday, the rain came down hard, so loud on the tin roof that it sounded like a thousand small fists trying to break through. Derek had called in sick, hung over, actually, but Julia didn’t need to know that. We were supposed to reorganize the supply wall. One of those tasks that seemed important, but really just involved moving things from one place to another so they could gather dust more efficiently.

She showed up in an old hoodie that had ruters across the front in faded letters, her hair tied up in a messy bun that looked like she’d done it without a mirror, her face bare of the minimal makeup she usually wore. She looked tired, but not in a bad way. Just soft around the edges, like she hadn’t fully assembled her public face yet.

 “I made extra,” she said, handing me a thermos. “Coffee stronger than usual.” “Figured we’d need it with this weather. The coffee was perfect. Strong enough to wake the dead, sweet enough to not be bitter.” We sat in the back corner of the garage, surrounded by halfopen boxes and tangled extension cords that probably violated several fire codes.

 The rain created a wall of white noise that made the rest of the world feel very far away. She pulled a cinnamon muffin from her coat pocket, still wrapped in a napkin from the bakery, and split it with me without asking if I wanted half. There was something intimate about the assumption, the easy sharing, the way she knew I wouldn’t say no.

 At some point, she sat down on the floor, cross-legged like a kid, her back against the wall. I sat next to her, close enough that our knees almost touched. The concrete was cold through my jeans, but I didn’t care. She looked younger like this, relaxed in a way I’d never seen her. You know the first time I ever changed a spark plug? She said suddenly looking at her coffee instead of me. I cried.

Actually cried. Thought I’d broken the whole car. I laughed surprised. Seriously? She nodded smiling at the memory. Your age? Maybe younger. 21. My husband boyfriend then showed me how. I got my fingers all cut up. Oil on my jeans. grease under my nails. I swore I’d never touch another engine.

 She held up her hands, permanently stained with grease that had worked its way into the tiny lines and creases. “Look at me now. What changed?” I asked. “Life,” she said simply. “Necessity. You learn to do things you never thought you could when you don’t have a choice.” She paused, took a sip of coffee. I used to be scared of getting dirty, scared of doing things wrong, scared of not being, I don’t know, perfect, pretty, whatever I thought I was supposed to be.

And now she looked at me then, really looked at me, and there was something raw in her expression. Now I’m more afraid of feeling too much or maybe not feeling enough. I can’t decide which is worse. The words hung in the air like the smell of rain and motor oil. I wanted to say something to tell her that I understood that I felt it too.

 That fear of numbness, that terror of awakening, but I couldn’t make the words come out. Eventually, I managed. Is that why you stopped painting? Her eyes widened slightly, surprised I knew about that. Derek told you. He mentioned it once. Said you were really good. She was quiet for a long moment. I was okay. Not good, just okay. But I loved it.

 The feeling of creating something from nothing. Putting color where there was just blank space. She smiled sadly. I haven’t touched a brush in 3 years. Since your husband died? Since before that, actually. Since I realized that painting was just another thing I did alone in a room while life happened somewhere else.

 She looked down at her hands. Maybe that’s why I like the garage now. It’s real, immediate. You fix something, it works. You don’t fix it, it doesn’t. There’s no ambiguity. But no beauty either, I said without thinking. She looked at me sharply. You think there’s no beauty in this? She gestured around the garage, the tools hanging in precise rows, the afternoon light filtering through the dirty windows, the rain creating patterns on the concrete where it leaked through tiny holes in the roof.

 That’s not what I meant. I know what you meant, she said softer. And you’re not wrong. But sometimes beauty is dangerous. It makes you want things you can’t have. Makes you see possibilities that aren’t really there. Our knees were touching now. I wasn’t sure when that had happened, who had moved closer, but neither of us pulled away.

 “What kind of things?” I asked, my voice lower than I intended. She looked at me for a long moment, and I could see her deciding something, weighing options, calculating risks. “Dangerous things,” she said finally. impossible things, things that would change everything and fix nothing. I wanted to ask her to be specific.

 I wanted to tell her that maybe dangerous and impossible weren’t always bad. I wanted to lean forward and close the space between us that suddenly felt both infinite and insignificant. But I didn’t. I just sat there, my knee pressed against hers, feeling the heat of her body through two layers of denim, and let the moment be what it was.

A few days later, she asked me to help her lift an old compressor that had been sitting in the corner for months. It was heavier than we expected. Those old ones were solid metal, built to last forever, even if no one wanted them to. We both bent down at the same time, reaching for the same side, and our hands collided.

 She paused, looked at me. Her face was close, closer than it should have been, close enough that I could see the flexcks of gold in her brown eyes, could smell the vanilla lotion she used mixed with the perpetual scent of motor oil that clung to both of us. “Now “Go ahead,” she said quietly, pulling back half an inch, but not more.

 you’ve got it. But her voice was softer than usual, less sure, like she was talking about more than just the compressor. We lifted together, her counting 1 2 3, and then we were carrying it across the floor. The weight required us to move in sync, to anticipate each other’s movements, and I became hyper aware of her body, the way she breathed, the flex of her arms, the slight grunt she made when we turned the corner.

Her arm brushed mine with every step, and she didn’t pull away. Neither did I. It was such a small thing, that incidental contact, but it felt monumental, like we were agreeing to something without words. When we finally set it down, we both exhaled at the same time. And then we laughed, not because it was funny, but because the tension had to go somewhere, had to transform into something safer than what it wanted to be.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, a gesture I’d seen her do a hundred times. But now I noticed the way her fingers moved, the shape of her hands, the wedding ring she still wore catching the light. Then she looked at me again, something unreadable in her expression. “Thanks,” she said, and her voice was almost a whisper like speaking any louder might break whatever spell we were under.

 Anytime, I said, and meant it more than I should have. After that, everything felt louder in the silence. Every moment became significant in its presence or absence. Every time she walked past me and didn’t touch my arm, I noticed. Every time she did, just a light graze. Her fingers on my shoulder as she reached for something, her palm on my back as she moved behind me in the narrow space between shelves.

I noticed even more. We never talked about it. This thing building between us like pressure in a cylinder. We didn’t need to. But I could feel it in the way she started standing closer to me when we talked. The way she’d find excuses to work on projects that required both of us.

 The way her eyes would linger on my face when she thought I wasn’t looking. I started waking up thinking about her. Not in the way I used to think about girls my age. Not in flashes of fantasy or possibility, but just her, Julia. The way she moved through space like she owned it but didn’t want to. The way she stood with one hand on her hip and the other holding a wrench, hair in that perpetual messy knot, grease on her cheek that she’d unconsciously smear when she was thinking hard about something.

I started memorizing things without meaning to. The pattern of freckles on her forearm. The way she hummed along to songs on the radio but only knew half the words. How she’d bite her thumbnail when she was doing math in her head. The exact shade of her eyes in different lights. Dark brown in the shadows, almost amber when the afternoon sun hit them just right.

 And I started remembering the sound of her laugh when no one else was around to hear it. how it dropped lower, became less performed, more real, like she was letting me hear who she actually was beneath the role she played. Mother, widow, business owner, survivor. One evening, I came in early to grab a tool I’d forgotten, and found her sitting alone on the edge of the workbench, legs swinging slightly like a kid’s, staring out the open garage door.

The sun was setting, painting everything in shades of orange and pink that made even the oil stains on the concrete look beautiful. The air was warm and still, that perfect temperature where you can’t tell where your skin ends and the world begins. She didn’t look at me right away, but she knew I was there.

 We developed that awareness of each other, that sixth sense that let us know when the other entered a room. I used to hate this place, she said, voice barely above the hum of the box fan in the corner. Felt like it stole time from everything else. Every hour here was an hour not painting, not traveling, not living the life I thought I wanted.

 And now, I asked, moving closer, leaning against the bench beside her. She turned to me then, eyes steady and vulnerable at the same time. Now it’s the only place I don’t feel watched. The only place where I can just be without performing for anyone. You don’t perform for me? She studied my face like she was trying to memorize it.

No, that’s the strangest part. I don’t feel like I need to. Her gaze held mine for a moment that stretched like taffy, sweet and almost painful in its intensity. I wanted to say something to tell her that she didn’t need to perform for me because I already saw her. Had been seeing her for weeks now in ways that made my chest ache.

 But the words tangled in my throat. Evan, she started, then stopped, shook her head slightly. Never mind. What? I moved closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her body. What were you going to say? Nothing that should be said, she answered, but she didn’t move away. Nothing that would make any sense. Try me.

 She laughed, but it was sad. You’re 20. I’m 38. You’re my son’s best friend. I’m a widow who can barely keep her life together. What could I possibly say that would make any sense? You could say what you’re thinking, I suggested. What you’re actually thinking, not what you think you should think. She was quiet for a long moment.

 Then I’m thinking that you make me feel like I’m 20 again, but also like I’m actually 38 for the first time. Like all the years before were just rehearsal, and now suddenly I’m awake. She paused, took a shaky breath. I’m thinking that when you look at me, I don’t feel like Dererick’s mom or Tom’s widow or the woman trying to keep a failing garage running.

 I just feel like Julia. You are just Julia, I said. That’s all I see. That’s the problem, she whispered. Later that night, as we locked up, our hands met on the door handle. Neither of us had reached for it at the same moment by accident. I knew that. She knew that. We stood there, her fingers resting on mine, the metal of the handle cold beneath our joined hands.

Drive safely,” she said, her voice quiet, but waited with something heavier than concern for my commute. I nodded, but I didn’t move my hand. Neither did she. We stood there for what felt like forever, but was probably only seconds, connected by this small touch that somehow felt more intimate than if we’d kissed.

When she finally pulled her hand away, she did it slowly, deliberately, her fingers trailing across mine in a way that made my whole arm tingle. She looked at me one more time, and in her eyes, I saw the same conflict I felt, want and shouldn’t, need and can’t, now and never. I walked to my car with my pulse thrumming in my ears and her name sitting on my tongue like a secret I was dying to tell but never could.

It was one of those warm Saturdays in early August when the air feels like it’s been sitting still for hours, thick and sweet like honey. The kind of day where everything moves slower, even thoughts. Derek had plans with his girlfriend Melissa. something about her cousin’s barbecue in Princeton.

 He’d been talking about it all week, mostly complaining about having to meet more of her family, but I could tell he was actually looking forward to it. 3 hours of small talk about my career goals. He’d groaned the night before, like working at AutoZone is my life’s ambition. So, it was just Julia and me at the shop.

 She’d texted me the night before, asked if I could help her reorganize the overhead lighting in the back bay. A few of the fixtures were flickering, she said, and she wanted to swap them out before the new mechanic started on Monday. Her text had been all business, but there was a second one that came through a minute later. Only if you’re free.

 No pressure. I’d stared at that second text for a long time. the way she’d added it, like an afterthought, like she was giving me an out. Like she was nervous I might say no. Or maybe nervous I might say yes. I’d texted back, “I’ll be there.” Three words, but I’d typed and deleted a dozen variations. Adding happy to help seemed too eager.

Sure, felt too casual. Of course, was too intimate somehow. In the end, simple felt safest. I’d barely slept that night. and when I did, I dreamed about her hands. The garage was quiet when I arrived at 9:00, that particular weekend, quiet, where the usual urgency of broken cars and impatient customers was absent.