Mess You Made

33.

Malibu.

Cristian will be happy. About the job, I mean and I suppose he doesn't have a track record of trusting most people around me but he's warmed to Miguel in a way I never would've expected.

I managed to take the Line 6 subway back towards home. It only took about ten minutes, and it wasn't fun considered what I was dressed in but I stole Miguel's jacket when I walked out of the locker room. It isn't as if he has a short stock of clothes. And I couldn't sit on the subway with this skirt.

It hangs down to my thighs as I glance down to the sleeves on the walk home. Aimé Leon Dore. Their black varsity jacket. I try not to think of how much it costs as I cast a hand up to shield my eyes from the sun, languidly turning the corner towards the car shop. From my vantage point, I can see a couple people lingering and so it looks busy enough, the shutters of the garage up and open to the daylight.

As soon as I turn in, that grey pitbull that I rarely see comes running out. I crouch for him so he doesn't tackle me, and smile a bit as Baby runs around my legs, grazing my fingers over his body. He's Rafe's more than he is ours. But he belongs to everyone, to be honest. A stray puppy that we found once near the maple tree outside our house.

Rafe took a liking to him more than anyone, and Baby's fierce for Rafe. Protective of him. So somedays, Baby's at the shop, other times he's at our house, sometimes he turns up at Sierra's.

I stand back up again and Baby follows my legs as I walk into the garage.

A vintage Porsche 924 sits perfectly inside and I recognise the few men sat out front as the owners of the car. Papai's old friends that flash me polite smiles and raise their drinks as I walk past, heading inside. The atmosphere is nostalgic. The sun and heat. The light smell of gasoline and chemicals under a single warm lightbulb. As expected, a pair of jean-clad legs lay out from underneath the car.

I lightly kick him. Cris grunts to ask what I want.

"Come out." I say.

"Paciência."

I kick him again.

He grunts, "Heels."

I glance down, remembering.

"Sorry." I say, "Come out, Cris."

He rolls the creeper forwards. Cristian sits up on it, still on the ground, knees bent and looks tired as fuck which I probably think every time I see him but it's true. Beads of sweat cover his skin so he's shirtless, grease-stained and looks up, nodding his chin to the bottle of water on the worktop.

I pick it up, handing it to him and he uncaps it to douse the back of his neck, letting the water run over his bare self.

"What's wrong?" He looks up at me, the rare amber colour of his eyes the same as our dad's.

"What are you doing under there?"

He glances back at the car, squints an eye at the sun streaming through the open garage, "Radiator hose needs a replacement." Looks up at me, "Remember?"

I nod. Him and papai taught me that one together so he stands up, and turns, leaning his back against the shelf whilst I take his position on the creeper. Once I lie down, I swiftly roll myself under the car. He's already loosened the clamps at one end so I pick up the pliers he'd set on the floor, and get to work loosening the other end.

He kicks me now, a lot gentler than I'd done to him, "Why didn't you have your shift, then?"

I take a breath, a moment, then answer, "I got a new job."