Rapscallion

My Lonely Ass Did it For Love

I try not to let my nervousness show on my face and instead busy myself with opening my wallet. "One of those faces?" I suggest. Buy it girl, just buy it.

She gives a short laugh. "No, you definitely don't have one of those faces." Her gaze drops to the fiver I'm pulling out and I realize my mistake as I watch the recognition solidify in her eyes. "Oh," is all she says, and I know she remembers.

Silence passes between us—one of those mutually frozen moments where we both know what's unspoken but neither of us knows what to say. Behind us the door jingles as the only other person in the shop leaves with a quiet, "Merry Christmas."

We still stare at each other, blue eyes against gray ones. "Do you normally rob banks in t-shirts?"

Slowly, I slide the fiver across the counter. She glances down at it like it's a dead fish.

There's a lump in my throat and ice coating my stomach.

"You're seriously...?" she stops, glances at the cash again, and shakes her head. "I... I can't accept this, I'm sorry."

"I have a day job, you know," I mutter, but her eyes betray her disbelief.

A villain, idiot. You're a villain, remember? a voice whispers, and that familiar sinking feeling pays me another visit.

And so, like I've done so many other times when folks grow uncomfortable in my heinous existence, I retreat.

Carefully, I slip the money back into my wallet, folding it in slowly and tucking it back in my pocket. I lower my eyes and smile, murmur, "Have a good Christmas" and leave my mug on the counter. When I push open the shop door and walk back into this Christmas day I'm hit with snow that now feels even more cold and unforgiving. Edgar sticks to my side faithfully, but even my dog can't warm my frost-bitten heart.

So we set out once again, just me and my dog, alone on the happiest day of the year.

"Wait!" The jingle of the shop door rings out into the snow and hurried footsteps patter up behind me.

I turn reluctantly and hold up my hands. Hopefully this lady isn't about to call out the cops. I'm really not feeling up to putting on a show.

The brunette skids to a stop in front of me, panting and bare armed. "Hey—look, I'm sorry about that. I guess you just surprised me, it's not every day a girl gets a customer like y—" She pauses and her cheeks glow pink before she rushes on. "Anyway, you wouldn't happen to know anything about cars...?"

I blink at her and make a mental note to expect unpredictable questions with this one. "Cars? Yeah, I guess I do. Why?"

"I'll give you a deal. Coffee on the house if you take a look at my car?" Her hands are folded in front of her earnestly.

I hesitate, mostly because my judgement is impaired by those blue eyes.

"It's Christmas," she insists. "It was rude of me to push you out like that."

I fold my arms. "I never do business without names."

Her eyebrow lifts. "Is that so?" She extends a thin, graceful hand toward me. "Marjorie Frank."

Marjorie Frank.

"You own the coffeeshop?"

"By the skin on my teeth."

It doesn't take me long to consider my options—long lonely and mopey walk or coffee and mechanics with a pretty girl?

"Lead the way, Ms. Frank," I tell her, and Edgar happily follows us back to the warm coffeeshop.

I'm not normally awkward around girls. I mean come on—I'm a bank robber. I'm all suave charm.

Not with this beauty with eyes of twilight, I'm not. I can't think of a single thing to say as I follow her back into her cozy shop.

"Thanks," I murmur as she slides my still steaming mug to me. I take a sip. It's good coffee—strong, with a hint of vanilla.

I watch awkwardly as she wipes her counters down with quick efficiency and flips the "Open" sign to "Closed". She snatches an orange carabiner with about ten keys on it and gives me a half smile.

"Car's right out here," she says, leading me through the back door. Her voice floats back to me along with the scent of jasmine and coffee grounds. "I hope you were serious about being able to fix it, because somethings really jacked up and I don't have the money to take it in."

Her car is an old, blue 360 Volvo hatchback. It's parked beneath a not-so-sturdy looking tin roof that slants off the back of the shop. Old armchairs are pushed to the side and I spot a stray cat slinking off into the snow at our arrival.

"You're in luck," I tell her, "I own a mechanic shop and have a bachelors in mechanical engineering."

The surprise radiating off her is almost enough to melt the snow outside. I bite back a sarcastic remark ("diabolically wicked customers only, please") and ask, "So what's the problem with it?"

It takes her a second to reply. I politely pass the pause by sipping my coffee, feeling rather like a Kermit meme.

"I... it's, uh, smoking," she says, "when I drive longer distances."

I set my mug on the hood and get down on my knees to check the ground. Sure enough, a small puddle has formed beneath the hood. "Can you pop the hood for me?"

She does, and I crack open the hood to find a nice mess. I hum under my breath as I poke around some, looking for the oil leak. "Gotta rag handy?" I ask as I pull out the dipstick. As I expected, it's bone dry and is instead splattered all over the engine.

Marjorie hands me a rag and peeks over the edge a safe distance away from me.

I try not to be offended since I am, in fact, a stranger as well as a villain. I check her radiator fluid too—also dry. I drop the hood and lean my hip against it, crossing my arms as I consider my options.

She rubs her arms, and I have an overwhelming urge to give her my jacket. "Is she gone for good?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No, it looks like you've just got a few leaks. Oil's all over the place and the radiator fluid is dry too, so that's what was causing the smoking."

I take another gulp of my still steaming coffee to buy myself some time. I need parts to fix it.

I could send her to a Pepboy's or something, but I have a strange desire to take care of this myself.

I know it's not a good idea. Letting her into my shop is crossing boundaries I'm not supposed to cross. Gray and Ben Cooper would intersect and this girl would know—who, really? Some combination of both?

It's dangerous. I know it is. But the ache of loneliness is stronger than usual, and she stands there like an angel with an antidote, a halo of brown hair catching snowflakes in the breeze. So I find myself saying, "If you want me to fix it, I'll need a few parts. My shop is right down the road—you can stop by Monday and I can do it in an hour."

I watch her expression carefully. Her eyes flicker warily for a moment, and then she nods. I reach into my jacket pocket and fish out an old gum wrapper. "Got a pen?"

I scribble down the address, ignoring the voice that whispers, this is a bad idea. Before I can change my mind, I fold it into a neat square and give it to her.

Marjorie unfolds it and glances back up at me. "Cooper's, huh? Is that you?"

I wink. "Thank you for the coffee, Marjorie. I'll see you Monday."

She chuckles, brushing a snowflake off her shoulder. "Alright then, Mr. Cooper. Merry Christmas."