The Boy Who Lives In My Garage > jariana (COMPLETED)

two

"Who's there?" My voice shakes as much as the dumb girls with the big boobs who ask that question in horror movies, usually right before they get killed.

There's no response. At least not one that's audible over the blood rushing in my ears. It must have been my imagination. I force my hands to stop shaking as I pull on my boots.

"Aren't you going to say 'thank you'?"

My heart stops. That was not my imagination. Ohmygod, there's someone in my garage. A guy someone. I'm going to die. I'm going to be raped and tortured and cut up into tiny pieces, but I can't do anything about it because my limbs are frozen in place.

"That's usually what you say, you know. When someone says 'bless you.' The polite thing to do is to respond with a 'thank you,' especially after a sneeze like that. Wow."

My legs are still paralyzed, but I'm able to reach to my left and feel along the wall until I find the switch. The lights are such a shock after the pitch black that I flinch. After a few blinks, my eyes adjust. The three-car garage is bigger than most in our neighborhood. Closest to me is my dad's white Chevy Malibu. The middle space contains my mom's white Trailblazer. Alyssa's hand-me-down Lumina (white, of course) is in the driveway, because the final spot in the garage is reserved for my dad's prized possession: his black 1977 Firebird Trans Am.

What I don't see between the cars and the rest of my family's belongings is the owner of the mysterious male voice. "Who's there?" I ask again. My gaze darts from one car to the next, waiting for any sign of movement.

The choices of possible weapons near me are lame: a bag of dirty car-washing rags, a garden hose, and a container of rock salt for icy steps. Something rustles over by the Trans Am. Lameness aside, I grab the salt in one hand and the hose in the other.

There's a laugh. "What are you going to do with those? Give me a salt water bath?"

At least the tone is more teasing than menacing, but I still tighten my grip on the hose. "Who are you? Where are you? And what are you doing in my garage?"

"I live here."

I almost laugh. "Um, no. You don't. I live here, and I think I would know if there was someone else living in my house."

"I didn't say that I lived in your house. I said that I live here. In your garage."

I roll my eyes. "Right. Well, I'd like to be able to see the crazy guy who claims to live in my garage, so can you...show yourself or something?"

"That depends. Can you lose the salt and the hose?"

After a second of hesitation, I set the weapons down, making sure they're still within reach. There's more rustling as a guy stands from between the Trans Am and the far wall of the garage. His hands are raised in the air like he's the one who's afraid of me, like I was holding something a lot more dangerous than a mineral and a garden tool.

"I'm innocent," he says. "See?"

He looks a little bit older than me, though not by much. His hair is light brown and he has quiff. Even with the distance between us, the caramel specks in his eyes catch my attention. Everything about him screams "Michigan in winter," from the thick navy and gray North Face jacket to the pink skin on his nose and cheeks. Everything except hanging out in a garage.

The guy shrugs, and his jacket makes the rustling sound I heard before. "This is the perfect place. Your parents leave the garage door open when they come home. I make sure I'm inside before they close it, and then I unlock the side door so I can come and go if I need to. The Trans Am doesn't seem to mind sharing the parking place with me. What year is it? A '76?"

Wow. My family needs to do a better job with the whole "security" thing. "It's a '77," I say. The Firebird is always covered with a brown tarp, and my dad would shit a brick if he knew a stranger was standing this close to the car, let alone lifting the tarp enough to guess at what year it is. "Just like in the movie—"

"Smokey and the Bandit," the guy finishes with a nod. He rests his hands on the roof of the car, and I'm shocked that it doesn't trip some kind of alarm. The car has been around since I was a kid, and I've never touched it. There's rumored to be a picture of me sitting in the driver's seat, probably on a bright, sunny day—the car has never seen a single drop of rain—but since I've never seen the picture, I'm not certain of its existence.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I glance at the display. Rosalinda found a ride for us and is waiting at the end of the subdivision. If I don't get there soon, she's likely to drive down the street with the horn blaring. If my parents can't sleep through a squeaky step, there's no way they'll sleep through that. "You need to leave. Now."

"Aw, come on. If I was going to rob your house, I would have done it a long time ago. That's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?"

He smiles, tight-lipped. "Long story."

"If it's such a long story, why say anything? Why give your hiding place away?"

He gives the coat-rustling shrug. "You sneezed. It was the polite thing to do. Besides, I can trust you."

His confidence borders on arrogance that makes me cross my arms over my chest. "And how do you know that?"

He motions toward the house, then nods toward the door where I will make my escape. "Because you know about needing to get away."

On one hand, he's right. Who am I to call out someone using my garage as a getaway when I'm about to use a party at someone else's house as my own escape? On the other hand, whatever he's getting away from could be dangerous. Illegal. "Sorry. Not saying you have to go home, but you can't stay here."

"You should know that I'm not above begging."

"And you should know that I'm not above calling 9-1-1."

"Okay, okay," he says, pushing off the car and picking up a backpack, which he slings over one shoulder. "I'm going."

My phone buzzes again. Really, ridiculously time for me to go, too. As I approach the side door, the space between me and the stranger shrinks to a few feet. Up close, the jeans and Puma tennis shoes he's wearing make him seem far too normal and rich for a guy who claims to be living in my garage. His brown eyes shine even brighter than they did from a distance.

He opens the door for me in a gesture that would be sweet if the situation wasn't so bizarre. "After you."

"No, really. After you." I check the door handle to make sure it's locked before following him out of the house.

"Have a good time tonight." His smile reveals bright white teeth, and I can't help but wonder what it would be like to kiss that mouth.

I duck my head, as if he can read my thoughts through eye contact. "You, too." And ugh, that was stupid. The chances of him having fun while finding someone else's garage to live in are slim to none. It's like when someone wishes you a happy birthday and you say, "You, too" without thinking about it. "I mean...stay warm. Or something."

"I will." He turns left, and I turn right, toward the end of the subdivision. We're a few feet apart when he says, "Bye, Ariana."

I don't stop to ask how he knows my name.

A/N:

I'm so excited for this story omfg

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