Page 23 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

TWENTY-THREE

Robbie

I’d finished for the day and was hunched over a work bench, flicking back through the pages of Classic Pontiac Repairs: A Practical Guide by Everett J. Monroe, rubbing at my temple as I skimmed page 23 again. According to Monroe, the best way to fix a misfiring engine on a ‘69 GTO was to adjust the timing chain tension—he made it sound like a straightforward fix.

However, on page 129, the same guy claimed that factory-set timing on those same models wasn’t the issue and that people should “avoid unnecessary meddling.” So which was it? Adjust or don’t touch?

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. I’d learn this stuff if the book wasn’t so poorly written.

I heard Rio making exaggerated footsteps outside the door to let me know he was coming to see me. “That was a big sigh,” he said from the doorway.

I looked up and smiled despite myself. “I think the people in this book are wrong.”

Rio held out a hand, and I passed him the book. He flipped through a couple of pages before snorting. “Yeah. This is shit.” He snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the counter.

“I want to learn, though,” I said, frustration creeping in. I had to learn.

Until I’d ended up in the group home, I’d never had the label for how my brain worked, but it had always been this way—relentless, seeking, needing to piece together information in a way that made sense. When a question surfaced, I had to find an answer to slot alongside it, something solid that fit. Unanswered questions gnawed at me and left me restless, my mind buzzing with the discomfort of not knowing. It was never unhappier than when it was stuck in uncertainty, spinning in circles, trying to make connections that weren’t there. And this? This was maddening.

For the first time in so long, I had the urge to learn something new, but instead of excitement, I felt lost.

I hated it.

Rio tilted his head, considering, then he paused as if he was going to say something—probably asking me if I was okay—but then his gaze flickered over my face. Whatever determination he saw there must have been enough to shut his reaction down. His expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable before he shrugged. “You learn through doing.”

“I’d probably mess it up before I figured out how to fix it,” I muttered, regretting the self-deprecating remark. The frustration curled in my chest. I hated how easy that kind of doubt escaped me, always leaving an opening for someone to swoop in, to try to fix me like I was something broken instead of someone figuring things out.

“Jamie and I were talking that maybe you’d want to work on the Camaro with us Sunday? Beers maybe, pizza, I dunno, us just showing you some stuff?” He paused. “You up for that?”

Excitement fizzed through me, bubbling up, and before I knew it, the questions spilled out, tumbling over each other in a rush, my words unable to keep up with my racing thoughts.

“For real?” God, I sounded like a kid who’d been told they were seeing Santa.

“For real,” Rio said with a grin.

“Okay, You’ll explain what happens if the timing belt snaps? Like is it always catastrophic, or can it be fixed? What if it’s just slightly worn—does that mean the whole thing is doomed? And when you rebuild an engine, how do you tell if a part is salvageable or too far gone? How do you know when to replace it? What about the carburetor—how can you be sure it’s the issue and not something electrical? And is there a way to test if a fuel pump is bad before you replace it?”

My pulse raced as I fired off the questions, my hands moving, my excitement building with every thought that surfaced. The idea hit me like a spark—maybe I could be a mechanic. Perhaps this was something I could do. I’d never had the chance to choose before, never been in a position to decide my path, and now, the thought of trying, of figuring out what I loved, gripped me hard. The happiness, the sheer exhilaration of wanting something, bubbled up inside me, impossible to suppress. I wanted this. I wanted to learn, to get my hands dirty, to throw myself into something that could feel like mine.

Oh wow, I’m seriously overreacting.

“So it’s a yes then?” Rio asked, his grin widening.

I forced a breath, steadying myself. “Yes,” I said, keeping my voice even, though my pulse still raced from all the possibilities.

Rio grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “And in answer to the question you’re dying to ask—I’ll get Enzo to join in as well.”

I floundered, heat creeping up my neck. “I didn’t— I wasn’t— That’s not—” I straightened, clearing my throat. “I didn’t say anything about Enzo.”

Rio’s smirk deepened as he saw right through me. I wished I could roll back time and nod along instead of making a spectacle of myself. My face burned, and I struggled to will away the embarrassment, tightening my chest.

Rio raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocence, but before I could argue, a voice interrupted us.

“I heard my name?”

I turned, stomach flipping. The man himself. Tall and strong, a streak of oil smeared across his Redcars T-shirt, his lips curved in a small, easy smile, his arms crossed over his broad chest, muscles popping. He was magnetic, and it was impossible to turn away as he stared at Rio and me, his usual concerned expression settling over his face—a look he seemed to reserve only for me.

Rio grinned. “I told Robbie he could help us work on the Camaro on Sunday, and he wanted to know if you’d be there, too.”

I felt the heat crawl up my neck to my ears. I did not ask that. But I couldn’t deny it now without making it seem like I didn’t want Enzo there—when the truth was, I did. I wanted him there more than I probably should, more than I could ever admit without giving too much away. I wanted to sit on his lap again, but since the night with the window I’d been nervous to initiate anything, and he was handling me with a gentle care that was infuriating. The idea of spending time with him, fixing up some old car, caused a different kind of excitement. Attraction? Hero worship? Whatever it was, I wanted to spend as much time with Enzo as possible.

My excitement waned when he didn’t smile in encouragement. Instead he stared at me for a second, his gaze steady, unreadable. My stomach did a slow, ridiculous flip, heat curling in my chest and the air between us felt charged, thick with something I wasn’t sure I was ready to name. Butterflies churned, an embarrassing, helpless reaction to the fact he was staring at me and, for a moment, nothing else seemed to exist. My brain scrambled for something—anything. A joke, a calm reply, or a standard response that wouldn’t make me sound like a total idiot. But all I could do was stare, my throat dry, my heartbeat too loud. Say something. Anything. My mouth opened, then closed. Dammit.

“You really want to work on the car?” Enzo asked. “Is that your thing?”

“He said he wanted to,” Rio cut in before I could respond.

“I was asking Robbie,” Enzo corrected, his eyes not leaving mine. Then he frowned.

I felt my chest tighten as the excitement slipped away. I didn’t know what I’d do if he asked me if I was okay. I already knew I wasn’t—had known it for a long time—but I didn’t want to hear it from him, didn’t want the weight of his concern settling over me again. I wanted this to be normal. To be treated like I wasn’t fragile, like I could handle myself without being watched for cracks ready to split me open.

“I want to learn,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt. Why did I feel like I needed his approval?

Enzo studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Sure, I’ll be there.”

And that was that.

Except it isn’t.

No one moved away from me, and the silence stretched too long, turning thick and awkward. I could feel Rio’s amusement, Enzo’s gaze, my pulse thudding loud in my ears.

Then—

“Yo! Rio!” Jamie called.

Rio winked at me and then ambled across the garage to where Jamie was brandishing a tailpipe. On the other hand, Enzo didn’t move.

“If Rio pressured you into helping out…” he said, his voice careful, measured, as if I didn’t know my own mind, as if I’d been tricked into agreeing. It made my skin prickle with frustration. I wanted to do something normal—just once, without him watching me like I might break.

“He didn’t pressure me; he thinks I can do it.”

His concern felt suffocating, winding me up more with every second that passed. I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my irritation in check, but the exasperation swelled inside me, a mix of anger and helplessness I couldn’t shake. I knew what I was, knew that I was a victim, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be treated like one. And yet, the one person I wanted to see me as something more—as a man, as capable—was the same one who kept watching me as if I were seconds from falling apart. It grated, sharp and unbearable. My fists clenched at my sides, my jaw tightened, and I swallowed against the frustration clawing up my throat.

Enzo exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, but, I know what Rio can get like, and if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine. You don’t know cars…”

My jaw tightened. “I can learn.”

Enzo held my gaze, steady, unreadable. “I never said you couldn’t.”

“But you thought it!” The words slipped out, raw and heavy with the weight of something too big to hold inside. My chest felt tight, my breath shallow, and I hated how overwhelmed I felt—how small. All that time sitting with him, letting him hold me, I’d been sharing my vulnerabilities and he was throwing it back in my face.

“No—”

“I was so excited, I wanted to do it, and you’re… you’ve ruined it… and I’m not… I’m…” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, my fists curling not in frustration but to keep myself from shaking.

Enzo hesitated, his expression softening. A flush crept up his neck as he reached back to rub at it, his tell when he didn’t quite know what to say. “It’s just… the guys can get rowdy off the clock.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Maybe I need rowdy,” I whispered. “Maybe that’s who Robbie Ellwood is now. Maybe that’s who I must be for you to stop treating me like I’m pathetic. I know I broke down after John tried to get in, but I’m allowed to do that. It’s real, and I felt it, and I was terrified, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely broken!”

His eyes widened, and he looked as though my words had knocked the breath from him. His lips parted as if he wanted to argue, to say something that would fix whatever had cracked between us, but no words came. Instead, his hesitation stretched a second too long, his uncertainty deepening the space between us.

“I don’t… I try…” he started, his voice softer.

I shook my head, unwilling to hear whatever careful thing he was about to say. “Please, don’t,” I murmured, then turned and headed straight for my room, yanking the door shut behind me. My breath shuddered as I pressed my back to it, my pulse still too fast, my thoughts too tangled. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the wave of emotions to pass, but the ache only deepened.

Enzo knocked. I didn’t answer, my fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt as I tried to steady myself. For a moment, silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. Then his voice filtered through the door, hesitant. “Shit, Robbie?—”

“I’m working!” I called to stop him, attempting to sound indifferent, but the tightness in my chest betrayed me. A soft thud followed—Enzo’s head meeting the door, maybe. I squeezed my eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek, torn between wanting him to go and wanting him to push, fight for me, and see me as more than someone who needed saving.

“We’ll talk later,” he said, his voice lower, uncertain.

“Go away, Enzo, and let me work.”

I felt hollow, as though something vital had drained out of me, leaving behind only exhaustion. My chest ached, my mind spinning with too many thoughts I didn’t want to untangle. Frustration gnawed at me, but beneath it was something close to grief. I wanted Enzo to see me differently, to treat me like I was capable, not fragile.

I’d been so fucking excited, and I’d wanted him to be happy for me. But when I thought about it, why wouldn’t he be concerned? When I jumped at every sound, when I hid in this fucking room, when I flinched at things that shouldn’t bother me—how could I expect him to treat me like I was fine when all I did was prove otherwise?

I wanted to be angry at him, but the truth was, he had every reason to worry. I barely slept or let myself exist outside safe spaces, and I knew I still carried the weight of what had happened like a shadow that refused to let go. Maybe I wasn’t fragile, but I sure as hell acted like I was. I was tired of it, tired of feeling like I was stuck in a place I couldn’t escape, but I couldn’t blame him for seeing it too.

I swallowed hard, frustration warring with the deep, aching truth I didn’t want to admit.

I opened my door, and there was Enzo, leaning against the wall. The second he saw me, he straightened, his expression shifting from unreadable to something softer, something almost regretful.

“I know you can work on the car. You can do anything you want to do,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You’re so fucking clever, Robbie. Smarter than any of us, and I’m sorry I ruined it for you.”

The words knocked the breath out of me, not because I didn’t believe him, but because I wanted to. My chest ached, my throat tight, and before I could think twice, I stepped forward, closing the space between us.

I walked right into his arms.

Enzo didn’t hesitate. He wrapped me up in that steady, grounding way of his, solid and sure. I inhaled the familiar scent of him—motor oil, clean soap, something undeniably him—and rested my cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my skin.

“Fuck,” I murmured, my voice nothing more than a whisper.

His arms tightened around me for a second before he exhaled. “Don’t ever think I don’t believe in you. Because I do.”

“I know.”

I buried my face in Enzo’s shirt one more time, letting myself have this moment of quiet, of safety before we separated.

He cupped my right cheek with his hand before clasping my shoulder and squeezing.

“You staying for dinner after work?” I asked, same as every end of day.

“I’d love to,” he said. Same as every time I asked.

“Chicken parm, tonight,” I said, to break the silence and the chaos in my head. “With garlic bread, maybe some roasted vegetables.” I’d retrained my stomach after years of nothing—years of gnawing hunger, of desperation. Now, I could eat anything I wanted, no longer limited by survival or scarcity. Cooking had become a quiet victory, something else I’d taught myself through books, through trial and error. Every meal proved I was here and choosing to take up space and live.

Enzo had been there through it all. He stayed every night, sitting at my table, eating whatever I made as if it was the best thing in the world. I wasn’t skin and bones like the near-dead man Enzo had found behind the dumpster, though I was still thin. But I was more than I’d been back then. Stronger. And tonight, I’d make something that reminded me of that and show Enzo again what I could do.

Enzo smiled. “Sounds good.”

I was cooking while Enzo fiddled with an engine after everyone else had left for the night—Rio and Jamie were back at their place, and Logan was heading off with Cassidy to see Gray for the weekend. I was drained from the emotional rollercoaster and couldn’t stay awake through dinner.

Enzo managed to rouse me just enough to pull me into a hug, told me he’d handled the dishes, and teased that he had to pull me out of my food. As he pulled away, he kissed me as a goodbye, when I looked up, he was already checking the locks and then headed upstairs.

I wanted more kisses, more hugs. I wanted to climb onto his lap again, although I’d gotten out of the habit, or maybe his body language told me he didn’t want me there.

I just wish I could sleep.