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Ayla
I can’t believeI damaged my car.
I’m usually so careful when backing in and out of spaces in the library parking lot, but this afternoon I backed straight into a pole. My rear bumper has a giant dent in the center. Looking at it clogs my throat with panic and floods my eyes with hot moisture. No, no, no. This car belonged to my mother. It’s the most precious possession I’ve ever owned. Willeverown.
When she died, my father sold all her possessions, because it was too painful for him to look at them. This car is all I have left of her. But I’m a senior in high school and don’t have the money to repair the old Volvo, but I can’t bring it home like this. My father will kill me.
Two years ago, on the morning I turned sixteen, I woke up to find my mother’s car sitting in the driveway. It had been sitting in the shed since her death, the engine dead, upholstery ripped, one of the windows cracked. But that morning, I found it shiny and restored in front of the house with a giant red bow on the top. It is the only kind thing my controlling father has ever done for me and now I’ve ruined it.
I slide my fingers into my dark brown hair and force myself to survey the damage one more time, tears slipping down my cheeks. There’s a reflection in the rear window that stops a sob from building in my throat, however. The vehicle repair shop across the street from the library. I turn and look at the building, my heart starting to race a little faster. I walk past the repair shop all the time—and as usual,he’sstanding in the opening of the garage.
Watching me.
Like he always does.
Flynt Porter.
Or as I like to call him, my shadow.
He’s a high school senior like me, but he doesn’t look like one. Most of the boys in my grade are awkward and greasy and gangly, but not Flynt. He’s a man. At six foot two, he towers over most of the teachers, let alone the other students. When he walks down the hallway with his worldly swagger and tortured eyes, the boys scatter and the girls sneak peeks from behind their locker doors, but no one ever speaks to him. He’s like a living legend. The boy who essentially raised himself, on account of his absent parents. He’s been working at the garage since he was thirteen, living upstairs and making his own way.
He's the most beautiful person to ever exist.
His body is strong. Thick. His jaw appears to be cracking walnuts at all times. But his eyelashes are so dark, it almost seems like he’s wearing makeup around those piercing green eyes. And for some strange reason, he has chosen me to watch.
To follow up and down the hallways. To every class.
I’ll never figure out how our class schedules match exactly, but they do. Every year since the beginning of high school. He sits behind me, never saying a word, just grinds that jaw and stares at the nape of my neck while my stomach does acrobatics. As a result of Flynt’s undivided attention, no one talks to me, either. I don’t know whether to hate him or love him for it. I’m not a very social person. I just like to keep to myself, read my fantasy novels and dream of the future. Where I’ll go. What I’ll do. It’s kind of nice not having the pressure of friendships and boyfriends demanding my attention.
But every morning, I wake up and wonder if today is the day Flynt will speak to me. It never is. But considering the horrible dent in my bumper, it appears I’ll be the one approaching him. What other choice do I have? I’ll beg him to fix my mess, if needed. I’ll pay him in installments. I’ll do his homework for the rest of senior year. Whatever I must do to restore my mother’s car. It’s all I have left of her.
My pulse is flying as I get into the Volvo and carefully drive it across the street.
There’s a flash of surprise on Flynt’s face when I signal that I’ll be turning into the garage, but it disappears just as quickly. He steps back and watches me slowly glide into the concrete bay. I turn off the engine and sit in the silence for a long moment, my eyes locked with Flynt’s through the front windshield. Goodness, he looks ever more like a grown-up in this environment. In those coveralls. His huge shoulders look like they could bust through the seams at any moment, his dark hair tangled around the collar.
When he strides toward the driver’s side, clearly intending to open the door for me, I make a small sound and press a hand to my belly. It’s flipping uncontrollably. What am I thinking coming in here? It’s so secluded. We’re the only ones in the garage. I’ve never even spoken to Flynt, now I’m going to ask him for the favor of a lifetime?
He opens the door, ducking down slightly so he can see me. “Hello, Ayla.”
Thank God I’m wearing a padded bra, because this first time Flynt utters my name in his smoky rasp, my nipples turn to hard little pegs. I reach for the hem of my skirt and tug it down automatically, but it’s still too short to reach my knees. Does he notice my thighs trembling?
“H-hey. Hey, Flynt.”
He coughs into his fist, his eyes closing momentarily. Because I said his name?
Then he steps back and swipes a hasty hand through his hair. “What do you need?”
“Um…”Stop being a coward, I berate myself, and finally climb out of the car. He watches me under hooded eyelids, his chest swelling, and I get the feeling he wants to surge forward. Pin me against the side of the car. But that might be my nerves wreaking havoc on my imagination. I’ve never been alone with a member of the opposite sex before. “I b-backed into a pole at the library.”
He stops breathing. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head rapidly and the tension seeps out of him. “No. Not at all.” I walk toward the bumper, his bootsteps following behind me. “I don’t know what happened. Iknowthat pole is there. I tried to stop, but…I think my foot must have slipped.” Oh God. Seeing the dent in the dim, yellowish light of the garage makes it look ten times worse. To my horror, liquid heat creates pressure on the backs of my eyes, a chill blowing down my spine. “This was my mom’s car. I should have been more careful. I should have been paying attention.” I look up at Flynt. “But I braked. IknowI did.”
He stares at me for long moments, before slowly shaking his head. “My angel doesn’t cry.” His right hand lifts, hovering over my face for several beats, explosions taking place behind his eyes. Then his thumb slides across my cheek, collecting moisture in one, warm sweep. “My angel comes and tells me her problems and I fix them. It’s about time you figured that out.”
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