The Sullivan Sisters

Something We All Can Live With

Two miles out—that's how far Charlie was from home when his car decided to quit on him. In the two years that he'd owned his pride and joy—a used, dark-green Range Rover from '03–he'd grown quite accustomed to the occasional moan of the engine as the car's mileage hit a new record high with each passing week.

Not to mention the quiet yet consistent, inexplicable sputters it'd emit each time he dared to breach thirty-five; which, of course, earned him too many impatient honks along the road to count.

Quinn offered to take a look on more than one occasion but he refused. Charlie hadn't considered himself a prideful guy by any means but his Rover's sputters and moans were what made it unique, as far as he was concerned. Besides, he doubted that he and Quinn were on civil enough terms for her to conduct such an inspection, anyway. Though that was more his call than hers.

Charlie found himself groaning, nearly matching the final, defeated groan his car mustered out upon giving up for the day, as he pushed it up hill. Just a few blocks till home.

Hearing the sound of another set of tires crushing gravel against the road behind him, he motioned for the driver to go around. But, from the sounds of it, they only slowed down. Charlie relinquished his title as traffic director. Instead, he reached into his car through his window, grabbing a handkerchief that he'd mindlessly tossed into his glove compartment a while back.

Within seconds, it was saturated with perspiration as he gave his forehead a much-needed wipe. The weather outside was cool, but it didn't mean his task left his body feeling as such. He neatly tucked the handkerchief into the back pocket of his khaki pants and proceeded.

"Old Gus quit on you, huh?"

Charlie's shoulders slacked as he let go of the car and turned around. He gave Quinn a somewhat pointed look as she walked towards him and away from her own car that was parked along the sidewalk, just behind his. He didn't know how she knew where to find him let alone how she knew that he was in the predicament to start with; he certainly didn't tell her.

"That's not his name. Her name." Charlie smacked his lips and shook his head, respectively. "It's a car. It doesn't have a name, and if it did, it certainly wouldn't be 'Old Gus'."

The corners of Quinn's mouth spread out into a deep wince. "I don't know. He's always given me 'Old Gus' vibes. People don't name cars; cars name themselves. You just have to listen closely."

Charlie kept pushing, and Quinn looked on. "And I suppose 'she' has a name?" he asked, nodding towards the redhead's beetle.

"It just so happens that he does."

Against his better judgment, Charlie dealt out a snicker, but it was fleeting. "He?"

Quinn's eyes widened and she nodded her head as if it was so obvious. "I have no intention of ever entering another female. That goes for cars, too. Thank God everyone I know all have guys or I'd have to walk most places." She grinned at just how hard Charlie was trying not to engage. He wasn't as good at ignoring her as he'd hoped. "His name is Quinton; goes by Quinn."

The boy's eyebrows stretched towards the center of his forehead as he frowned curiously. Quinn laughed. "It's oddly coincidental, I know. Can't say I disapprove, though. But, in my defense, cars name themselves, remember?"

Charlie's expression readopted the scrunched up way it had about it as he pushed the car up the road that seemed to stretch by the minute. As an onlooker, Quinn nearly lost her backbone.

To combat this, she asked, "You push, I steer?"

She accepted the low-effort, polite smile he briefly flashed her upon inviting her into the driver's seat. Shifting the gear to drive, Quinn sat quietly as they each fell into their agreed upon roles. Charlie gently tugged away at the sleeves of his navy-blue cardigan, careful not to soil his clothes in the process before starting again. Grinning, Quinn observed this. Ever the neat freak, her boyfriend.