Chapter Text
By the time August rolled around, 2019 left me thoroughly exhausted.
Six days into the year, I turned thirty, which would have been fine if I had accomplished literally anything I wanted to by that age. Instead of making a living as a writer, I was the assistant manager of a coffee shop (nothing wrong with that, it just makes it harder to justify my English degree). Rather than lose the thirty pounds I put on in college, after graduation, I gained twenty.
Surely, by this point, I would at least live on my own, right? Wrong. Between my thirty-two-thousand-dollar annual salary, three-hundred-dollar monthly student loan payment and two-hundred-dollar car payment, my choices were live with my mom or find a roommate. That was all well and good until my most recent roommate moved in with her girlfriend and I retreated into my childhood bedroom.
Fortunately, the reality of turning thirty scared me into applying to nonfiction MFA programs. I heard back from them in the spring. I got a lot of no’s, but I was accepted into a high-residency program and a low-residency program, neither of which were fully funded. I was also waitlisted at the University of Iowa.
Early in the summer, my best friend (and, technically, boss) Maggie caught her girlfriend cheating and confronted her in the street about it. Wanting to get as far away from her ex as possible, Molly found a job in Iowa City. Before I had a chance to resent her, I got into the University of Iowa. It’s amazing how quickly things can work out.
My mother, who was supportive, if a little overbearing, insisted she help us move; she could ride there with me and then take the Megabus back to Des Moines the next day. The two-hour car ride with her wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. In fact, everything was absolutely fine until we were about twenty minutes outside of Iowa City. As the Fleetwood Mac album we were listening to ended, I noticed a persistent metallic noise I couldn’t recall my car making before.
“Do you hear that too?” I asked.
“I wonder if something’s dragging under the car.”
“I’ll pull over at the next rest area so we can take a look.”
“Pull over now. This could be serious.”
“I don’t feel anything dragging, so I think we’ll be okay until—”
“Just trust me.”
“Mom, I’m telling you—”
“Tiffany Diane Duke—”
“Okay, fine.” I rolled my eyes, moved onto the shoulder, and slowed to a stop. We got out and checked under the car, going as far as to use our phones as flashlights.
Nothing.
“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll unload your stuff and take it to the nearest dealership—”
“Dealership? I can’t afford a dealership! Let’s just look up Yelp reviews.”
“Since when do you trust Yelp reviews?”
“I kinda don’t have a choice right now. Let’s just try to find someplace local since they’ll be less likely to fuck me.”
My mom spent the rest of the trip researching nearby auto body shops. “This Miller Brothers place in North Liberty has good ratings. I’ll call and see if they have any openings.”
…
Miller Brothers did, in fact, have an opening, so we drove there after unloading my stuff.
“Their website says they’ve been around for close to a century,” my mom said, betraying that she’d exited out of the Maps app on her phone. (I wasn’t allowed to pull up Maps on my phone because it would be a distraction.)
“What does the GPS say?”
“The…the next one…Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take it to the dealership?”
“Mom, we’re almost there. Worst case scenario, I just pay for the diagnostic, and we get a second opinion.”
Stepping inside, I took in the tall man with golden tan skin standing behind the counter. His soft brown eyes complimented the curls peeking out from under his Standard Heating Oil cap, as well as his scruffy facial hair.
“Hi, can I help you?” he asked, his voice soft and deep.
“Yes,” my mom said before I could even open my mouth. “We just called. My daughter’s car—”
“Tammy, right?” his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“Yes. This is my daughter, Tiffany.”
“I’m Frankie,” he said, although the patch on the coveralls that strained against his broad shoulders read “Francisco”.
“Nice to meet you.” I felt myself blushing.
“So, your mom said your car was making a noise?”
“Yeah, it makes this weird metallic sound whenever I accelerate.”
He nodded. “Would you say it hesitates when you shift gears?”
“Yes, definitely,” my mom cut in. “I was doing some research on the way over here and I’m concerned it could be either the clutch or the transmission.”
Why couldn’t she just let me talk to the incredibly attractive mechanic about my car?
“What year did you say it was?” he asked.
“Twenty-fourteen,” my mom and I said simultaneously.
“Would you mind us road testing it? That year is notorious for transmission issues.”
“Not at all,” she responded for me. Frankie glanced at me, and I gave him a small nod.
“Perfect. I’ll just need you to fill this out, so we have your contact information.”
I went through each line carefully, relieved to have an excuse to look down.
“Are you one of the Miller brothers?” my mom asked.
“No, I actually served with them. A few years ago, they took over the shop from their dad and brought me on.” He sounded polished, like he fielded the question regularly.
“Oh, so are you from here originally?”
“I’m from Miami.”
“Here you go.” I handed him the paperwork before my mother had the chance to turn small talk into an interrogation.
“I’ll give you a call either this afternoon or tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you so much!” I said, turning to walk out the door. By some miracle, Maggie had just arrived to pick us up.
“He was cute,” my mom said.
“Who was cute?” Molly asked. “Tell me everything.”
…
The next morning, I awoke to my phone vibrating on the nightstand. I almost didn’t answer when I saw that it wasn’t even an Iowa area code. Desperate for caffeine, I unplugged it from the charger and shuffled into the living room.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Francisco at Miller Brothers,” the voice on the other end said with practiced professionalism. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
“No, it’s fine.” I stifled a yawn, trying to figure out which box the French press and electric kettle were in.
“We road tested your car and heard the same growl you described when shifting from second to third gear. It’s going to need a transmission overhaul.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I have good news though. The manufacturer just announced a recall, so you can take it into the dealership in Iowa City and they’ll replace it for free. Is it okay if I text their number to you?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Hopefully they can squeeze you in sometime this week, but as long as you take it easy, you should have some time before the transmission goes. This is my personal cell phone number, so let me know if you need anything.”
…
After seeing my mom off on the Megabus, Maggie insisted on going into Miller Brothers with me when I picked up my car.
“I have to see this guy for myself,” she said, pulling into the parking lot.
“I don’t even know if he’s working right now,” I protested, throwing open the passenger door.
“Didn’t he call you to say your car was ready?” she ushered me inside. A toned man with sandy blond hair, a beard, and a few tattoos, stood behind the counter. When he looked over to greet us, Frankie appeared.
“I’ve got this one,” he said, digging my key out of a cabinet. “She’s parked out front. The going rate for a road test is eighty-five but since we’re kicking it over to the dealership it’s on the house.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, I spent maybe twenty minutes with it.” The image of Francisco’s broad frame in my tiny car distracted me from the rest of what he was saying. “I tell you what,” he said, snapping me back into the present. “I promise to charge you full price next time you need an oil change. Deal?”
“Deal.”
We shook hands, his large, calloused ones dwarfing my own comparatively soft, slightly pudgy ones. My cheeks flushed when we made eye contact one last time.
…
Maggie’s and my apartment was in a neighborhood my mother described as “colorful”. She went as far as to make sure we each had pepper spray and knew how to use it. The unit itself was fine. There was wood paneling in the living room and slightly outdated appliances in the kitchen, but it was clean and in good condition. More importantly, the bedrooms were the same size and we each had our own bathroom.
As we assembled all manner of flat pack furniture, Maggie could not shut up about Frankie.
“He was totally flirting with you!”
“No he wasn’t! He was just being nice. This is Iowa. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“But he’s not from here.”
“He’s from Florida! I’m sure they have nice people there too.”
She raised an eyebrow at me.
“Maybe he saw how little I knew about cars and took pity on me.”
Maggie thought for a moment, which was never a good sign.
“You know,” she said finally, “if you want to get a better idea of his intentions, you could text him.”
“And say what?”
“Tell him that he’s cute and ask if he’s single.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Thank him for his help and let him know that you scheduled an appointment at the dealership.”
“I don’t want to call the dealership right now,” I whined.
“You’ll have to do it whether or not you talk to him again.”
I relented, and Maggie dictated a text that she deemed direct yet playful.
He opened it almost immediately and after a few seconds he started typing. We watched the three dots appear and disappear over and over, followed by nothing.
That night I felt both better and worse when I came on my fingers thinking about him.