Page 55 of A Real Goode Time
“I don’t know, Saint Rhys has a nice ring to it.”
I faked a glare at her, but couldn’t hold it for long. “Ha ha. You’re hilarious.”
“I try.” She ran a hand over the dash. “You did this one, I take it?”
I nodded. “My first shot at a restoration. My real area of expertise is engine repair. I can muddle through transmissions and I can do simple things like brakes and whatever, but a lot of stuff requires special equipment and tools, especially with newer cars. I don’t do wiring and computer stuff for the new models. I just like the old engines—classic internal combustion, baby. Diesel is a whole other game, and I’m slowly teaching myself that.”
She laughed. “You were telling me about the Jeep.”
“I was rambling again, wasn’t I?”
She held her forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “A little.”
“So, yeah. Anyway. I got this on salvage. Engine was seized, tranny was blown. Rust in the quarter panels and rocker panels and both bumpers, but the interior was nearly mint. It was weird. Like, the headliner is tight, all the gauges work, the stock radio works, floors and upholstery were all in great shape. The interior was pretty much as you see it now. I replaced the seats with new racing buckets because they’re more comfortable, and I replaced the soft top because it was aging and a tricky piece of shit. I did all the bodywork myself, got rid of the rust where I could, replaced the panels where I couldn’t, welded on new steel in other places. Put in a beefy old V8 from an ’89 Suburban totaled in a T-bone accident, a five-speed manual from another CJ. New suspension with a three-inch lift, new tires and wheels, and a new coat of paint.” I laughed. “I overdid it. I could sell it for twenty, maybe twenty-five, but what I spent on parts and my labor time and paint? Eesh.”
She frowned. “Wait, you pay yourself labor?”
“It’s one of those business things. I have an LLC, which just means the shop’s income goes through the LLC, and I pay myself after I’ve paid all the overhead bills and taxes and all that.”
“Oh, right.”
“And how do you like doing restorations?”
“Eh, well? I’d like them better if I could hire an auto body guy to do the welding and rust mitigation and shit. I don’t like that part all that much—I can do it, and do it well, but it ain’t fun for me. I like the vision, and the final product, and getting into the engine. Tinkering with welders and grinding or torching away rust is work I just don’t like. But I’ll do it because the final product is cool.” I patted the dashboard. “I think this turned out pretty well. Which is why I’ve kept it to drive myself.”
“But you’re working on that truck.”
“Because I needed a new personal project. And I guess I have a short attention span when it comes to what I’m driving. I like to change it up.”
She grinned. “I love this thing, personally. I like being up high, I like how powerful the engine is. I like the manual transmission. I like the soft top, and I just think it’s cool, but I’ve always loved Jeeps.”
“You have?”
She nodded. “Oh yeah. Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted my first car to be a Wrangler. I wanted a red one, with a soft top, and big wheels. I just thought they were the coolest thing on the road, and whenever I saw a girl driving a cool Jeep, I’d get, like, a little girl crush. Like,she’s cool. I dunno.” A self-conscious shrug.
We’d been on the road for a while now, and it was well past lunchtime. We passed a sign announcing an upcoming exit with lots of good food options, and I pulled onto the exit ramp.
“Hey, Jeeps are cool. And chicks driving pimped-out Jeeps are hot.” We pulled into the parking lot of a Sonic; I parked in one of the car service spots, and grinned at her. “Lunch time, and then I hope you’re up for driving.”
She clapped her hands, grinning joyfully. “Yay! Sonic for lunchandI get to drive the Jeep again.” We both jumped out and switched seats, and then we ordered food. While we waited, she eyed me. “So, when you said chicks driving pimped-out Jeeps are hot, was that a general statement? Or was it angled at anyone in particular.”
I snickered. “It was a segue to you driving. You, a hot girl, driving a pimped-out Jeep? Double dose of hotness.” I shrugged. “It’s not really pimped out, though. Just a lift kit and bigger tires.”
“I personally think it’s just right. When you put, like, LED light bars and winches and snorkels and all that, it’s a little much, just to me personally. Unless you’re a serious off-roader and actually use all that gear.”
“Which I don’t, so I went more minimal.”
She wiggled in the seat as the food arrived, and then we dug into our meals. Once we were done eating, had used the restrooms and stretched our legs, ready to set out again, I put the top back, and took the passenger seat. Plugging my phone into the cigarette lighter adapter, I brought up the GPS directions. There was nowhere to really put the phone—I’d forgone the aftermarket console between the seats in favor of a more minimalist look, and once it was plugged in the phone wouldn’t reach the dashboard. Which meant it had to be balanced on Torie’s thigh.
So, I placed the phone on her thigh, but it wobbled off, and I grabbed it.
She was, at that moment, navigating onto the freeway, and needed both hands to switch gears and steer. “Maybe just hold it and tell me when I need to exit or whatever?” The wind noise was loud, and she had to shout.
The next several hours were total fun. Honestly, it was the easiest conversation I’d ever had. We talked about our favorite movies, favorite music, most embarrassing childhood stories, dumbest teachers, coolest teachers…everything under the sun. And, sometimes, in between threads of conversation, we were just comfortably quiet.
Like me, she tended to leave her hand on the shifter while she was driving; a bad habit, technically, I know. Third gear tended to stick, a little—not a major problem and not worth pulling the thing out to fix, so I just left it sticky. But sometimes, every once in a while, it just…stuck real good and needed a nice hard whack.
This happened as we were finally coming through a slow-down in the traffic. Vehicles were piling up behind us, horns going off, and the damn shifter wouldn’t go out of third gear no matter how hard she pushed.