Some girls do

Chapter 35: Chaewon

"Dammit." I groan, sliding out from under the car and slamming my wrench on the ground.

Hyojong glances at me and then goes back to tinkering with a motorcycle engine on the other side of the shop.

I sit up, hanging my elbows off my knees as the sweat drips down my face. We were hit with an early heat wave, which means it's about a billion and a half degrees in here. And I'm stuck in gloves because I can't risk messing up my manicure this close to the pageant. Perfect.

A water bottle appears in front of my face, Hyojong's grease-covered hands gripping it tightly. "Are you gonna tell me what's going on?"

The bottle crinkles when I grab it. He tosses me a clean rag, and I pour some water on it and wipe it over my face and neck. "The brake caliper piston seized."

He takes a sip from his own bottle, seeming to consider his words carefully before moving on with a simple "You know that's not what I'm talking about, kid."

And I know it's not. He wants to know why I've been here at the shop every spare second that I'm not at school or doing pageant prep, but I can't tell him. He wouldn't understand, and if I told him everything, he might even get freaked out. I couldn't bear that on top of . . . well, on top of everything else.

"Come on, what's eatin' you?"

"Nothing," I say, walking over to the radio. Hyojong has it set to some terrible classic rock song about painting things black, which is perfect for my mood. I crank it up loud and grab a fresh rag and a carburetor that needs to be cleaned from my workbench, pointedly sitting with my back to him.

I assume he's gone back to working on the bike—Hyojong's never been one to push—until I hear him turn the radio down. I spin around in my seat slowly and find him watching me, completely amused.

"What?" I pout.

"I was just thinking that people have probably been throwing fits and blasting that song since 1960, but this is the first time I've ever seen it happen in real life."

"You weren't even alive in the sixties." I snort.

"Doesn't mean I'm wrong." He squirts some GOJO into his hands, scrubbing off the grease in the industrial sink beside me. "Come wash up."

"I'm still working," I say right as a delivery guy pulls up to the door.

"Not when dinner's here, you're not," he says, going to pay the guy and grab the bags of food. They're from Mama's Restaurant—I can already tell—which means it's probably Mama's roast beef sandwich special. My mouth waters at the thought of it. At $8.99 a sandwich, it's a rare splurge.

I pull the gloves off my hands as quick as I can and then duck into the bathroom to clean up a little extra before joining him at the picnic table behind the shop. He's already halfway through scarfing his down by the time I'm out.

Hyojong slides my box over to me as I drop into my seat.

"Thanks." I take the biggest bite I possibly can, my cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's, but I don't even care. Hyojong doesn't give a shit about me being presentable, pageant-ready, or laChanike. He doesn't care if I inhale roast beef and love grease and loud, fast cars. He doesn't give a shit about anything at all as long as I keep my workspace clean and do a good job.

Or so I thought, but then he sighs and gives me a look I've never seen before. It seems almost . . . worried?

"All right, I've let this go on long enough," he says, like it's actually killing him to say this. "You gotta tell me what's wrong before I get an ulcer."