While her best friend Cassidy snacks on brie and boys in France, Darcy Li-Quinn must face her last year of high school and the unpredictable wrath of her sister, Danica, alone. Darcy's plan for dealing with Danica and her heinous friends is simple-b...
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I've missed Lilliana Milano.
I don't mean that the way it might sound. Lily loved my brother more than she loved me, and that finally feels okay. Today has forced me to remember that Lily and I were friends before we were anything else, and I've missed my friend—fiercely.
On the way to Manny's Automotive, I think about how right it is to have Lily back in my life. I try to focus on Lil, because the alternatives are facing the fact that I'm about to visit the place where Archer died, or acknowledging the havoc that Darcy's thigh—currently pressed against mine in the back of the Uber—is wreaking on my equilibrium. Neither of those seems like a wise thing to fixate on, but at least Darcy's thigh won't render me a blubbering mess.
Annoyingly, I suspect Lily has guessed at the physical effect Darcy has on me. She keeps shooting us coy looks, like she knows something we don't. But, whatever Lil thinks is going on, she's wrong. I overheard snippets of Darcy's conversation with her friend in Paris. The way Cassidy was talking about 'Bus Boy' made it crystal clear that Darcy's been crushing hard on Archer. Exactly as expected. End of story.
I heard it; I know it, and still there was a split second in Darcy's bedroom when I almost kissed her.
Thank fuck Danica interrupted us before I made a complete dick of myself.
Let it go, man. She doesn't like you like that. The last thing you want to do is make her uncomfortable.
"Hunter, we're here." Darcy taps me on the knee to get my attention.
Lily's already halfway out of the car.
From the corner of my eye, I glimpse the distinctive branding of Manny's. The air rushes from my lungs and my world shrinks.Framed by a triple frontage of navy painted brick and canary yellow acrylic signage, the open roller doors reveal the service bays beyond. I refuse to turn my head and look directly at the garage. If I do, I'll have to admit that none of the mechanics going about their business in grease stains and dark blue coveralls are my car-crazy brother.
Fuck.
"Hey." Darcy's voice is soft and full of sympathy. "This is impossibly hard stuff. You don't have to do this, Hunter, you really don't. But if you decide to go in there, I promise I'll be with you every step of the way."
Too choked up to speak, I reach for Darcy's hand and hold on tight—a gesture which is quickly becoming habit. She might not see me the way I see her, but I'm overwhelmingly grateful for this girl I barely know.
When we step into Manny's, the familiar Archer scents assault my nose and my heart with swift brutality. Maple syrup, burnt marshmallows, fresh rubber and rich leather. The skin-deep cologne of the lifelong car enthusiast.
Archer always joked you'd make a fortune if you could bottle the smell of petrol, old leather, new tyres and coolant. He claimed girls only chased him for his 'eau de mechanic' (as if a ripped rig, passable face, and charm by the tank load were irrelevant). That was—is—my brother to a fault: cheeky; self-effacing; the excitable golden sun around which the rest of us dance like cosmic dust, happy to be in his orbit.
