Page 102 of Rastor

A couple days later, it was Thanksgiving, and I was alone – not that I cared. There was only one person who I wanted to spend any holiday with, and she wasn't talking to me.

It was nearly noon, and I was in the garage out back, working on the vintage car that I'd beaten with a crowbar in front of Chloe.

The car was still a mess, but not as bad as before. I'd replaced both headlights and the side-view mirrors. As for the rest of it, I had to be honest. It looked like shit. The windshield was still cracked, and the hood was still covered in big, ugly dents.

Funny to think I could write a check and have the car looking exactly like it had before. Or even easier, I could have a dealer find me a replacement car, already restored. With enough money, anything was possible, right? And I had plenty.

But for all kinds of crazy reasons, I was attached tothiscar. I'd restored it once, and so I'd be doing it again –withouthelp. This time, it wasn't for fun. It was because it sucked, and I deserved to suffer. Writing a check would be too easy, and I didn't deserve to take the easy way out.

I stood back and studied the car with a critical eye. It was painful to look at, but not for the obvious reasons. It was because every dent, every chipped piece of paint, every spider-webbed pattern in the cracked windshield, it all reminded me of Chloe and how I'd lost her like a dumb-ass.

What was she doing today? Spending Thanksgiving with her family? I blew out a long breath and pictured us together, not just today, but every day. If things had turned out differently, Chloe would'vebeenmy family. At the thought, I tried to smile, but my face felt frozen, and my heart wasn't in it.

Stalling, I popped the hood of the car and was just checking the oil when something made me stop in mid-motion. My cell phone was ringing – and it wasn't just any ringtone.

It was Chloe's ringtone.

My hands were slick with motor oil. Frantically, I wiped the grease onto my jeans and white T-shirt, and looked around, wondering where the hell my phone was. I could hear it, but I couldn’t see it.

I circled the car and finally spotted it in the driver's seat. I yanked open the car-door, grabbed the cell, and answered with an urgent, "Chloe?"

"Yeah." She hesitated. "Listen, I've got a question."

I was clutching the phone with both hands. "Yeah?"

"You still want that beating?"

I paused. "What?"

"Sorry," she said with a shaky laugh. "Bad joke."

Finally, I got what she meant. When she'd been walking out on me, I'd practically begged for a beating instead of the alternative. The reason had been simple. And selfish. A good beat-down would've hurt a lot less than losing her.

I still felt that way. The dull ache of life without her was grinding me down like nothing else. Maybe shewasjoking, but that didn't change the facts.

"I remember," I said. "And for what it's worth, the offer still stands."

I meant it, too. I'd welcome that kind of pain, because the other kind was killing me. Even now, listening to her voice and knowing that she wasn't mine, it was salt in a wound that had been festering for weeks.

She hesitated. "Well, that's the thing, I really hate to ask, but I need a favor, and it's kind of awful."

"Whatever it is, the answer's yes."

"Really?" Her voice caught. "Because I know that I shouldn't be asking. And I wouldn’t, except I'm kind of desperate, and I don't know what else to do."

The hitch in her voice hurt to hear. "Hey," I said, my own voice growing softer, "just tell me what you need. No matter what it is, the answer's still yes."

"Alright." She paused. "I need a ride."

Just a ride? That didn't seem so awful to me. "Great," I said. "Just say when."

"Well, um, now actually."

I didn't ask where, and I didn't ask why. All I said, "Alright, give me five minutes to change."

"Actually," she said, "we don't have the time. I'mreallysorry. But can you come now? I mean, likerightnow?"

I froze as a horrible thought slammed into me. "Are you hurt?"