24. Blaise

TWENTY-FOUR

I've haddays in my life that were so shitty, even remembering them hurts. Like when my mom died, or a storm blew half a freaking tree and about a million gallons of rain through the window of my dorm and trashed my stuff. Having a dickhead for a dad wasn't bad enough; I lost my remaining childhood memories to fucking rain.

Then there are the gold star days. Days that were so completely amazing, I can hardly believe I was so lucky as to live them. Today's been one of those days. I had a huge commission at work, a guy whose ex-girlfriend cut up all his clothes, claiming their relationship failed because he loved them more than her. The judge awarded him ten thousand dollars in damages, and I'm the lucky bastard who got to help him replace his "basic" wardrobe. As if that wasn't good enough, while I was on lunch, I got an email from Halle Manx, asking me to give her a call. Of course I did.

She said she'd looked at the photos I sent her after the convention, and she and her team had this idea. Would I be interested in designing and patternmaking costumes for some of her characters that she could sell through her website? She wants to offer the option of just the pattern, the pattern plus a kit of everything a cosplayer would need to make it themselves, or a fully made-up version. I warned her I could only handle the design and patternmaking, plus one made-up sample and all the notes about materials, and she assured me her team could find people to do the rest. The flat fee for each design and pattern that she suggested was way more generous than I expected, and I think I might have zoned out for a second before telling her yes, I would definitely watch my email for the contract.

So yeah, total gold star day. Jordan came out to his team over a week ago, and even though I know he was worried it would mess with their winning streak, it did not. They've won both games since, including their away game against Arizona State, and the articles about the team no longer begin with, "The Kings, the team alleged sex offender Greg Hannaway played for," and now only mention him in a throwaway line toward the end, if at all. Plus, the team's really gotten into the idea of modeling for the arts school—there was an informal mixer the other week, and now there's talk of making it an official partnership between the arts school and the baseball team, a collaborative effort going forward. I have noticed a wider range of people in the stands lately—and not just because winning games means more people come to watch.

I think I'll stop and pick up something for dinner—chicken, maybe, or curry from that Thai place Jordan loves. He's meeting me at my place and texted me this morning to announce that he has no studying to do tonight. So it'll just be us and the whole night to do whateve?—

Clunk.

What the fuck?

My whole car starts to rattle, practically vibrating, and there's smoke coming from under the hood, so I quickly steer to the side, grateful I'm not on a busy road. As soon as I turn the engine off, it clunks again.

It's fine. This is fine. It's just a minor hiccup. Not something that's going to ruin my gold star day.

I pop the hood, then get out and go have a look. That's my first mistake—the hood is fucking hot, and when I get it up, with much swearing, all I see is smoke and engine. I don't know why I bothered looking.

Pulling out my phone, I google for the closest garage. It's two blocks away, which bodes well if I'm going to need a tow. Not that I will. This is something that can be fixed in two minutes.

The guy who answers the phone doesn't seem so sure. "Wait, so it was rattling and there's smoke?"

"It also made a weird clunking sound, twice. I haven't tried to start it again, though—should I?"

"Not yet," he says slowly. "Is it smoke or steam?"

I look at the dissipating plume. "I think both? It looks like steam, but I can smell smoke—like burning rubber kind of smoke, but not rubber, exactly."

He's silent for a second. "Where did you say you are?"

"Portland Street—according to Maps, I'm about four minutes' walk from you."

"Okay, stay there. I'm just closing up, but Imma swing by and take a look. If I need to, I can tow you back and get started on it tomorrow morning." He hangs up before I can ask anything else.

Oh well. A tow and minor repairs are going to be a hit to my savings, but it's still fine. This new job is going to put me over the top of my living fund goal before the end of June. I'm going to soothe the sting of my car breaking down by applying for the internship tonight.

While I wait for the mechanic, I send Jordan a text saying I'll be late and can he grab dinner for us. With Drey's agreement, I gave him a key to the apartment a couple of weeks ago. He immediately texts back a thumbs-up and a kissy face emoji, and I can't help smiling. Gold. Star. Day.

Fifteen minutes later, the smile is gone.

"I don't understand," I say numbly, even though I very much do understand. I just don't want to. "How can it not be repairable?"

The mechanic—whose name is Dave—grimaces. "I guess it could be repaired, but it's not worth it, man. It's an old car, and it'll cost more to get it up and running than it would to buy something five years newer. I'd be a dick to tell you anything else."

That's thousands of dollars. He's talking about thousands of dollars. Because if I buy a new used car, it has to be something reliable. I don't know what my living situation's going to be like when I move to LA, and I can't count on the idea of public transit being able to get me to and from work. Even now, getting a bus to the mall for work would turn my ten-minute commute into a forty-five-minute one, and it would be worse for my night and weekend shifts. A car that I can depend on is a must-have.

So… I guess I'm not applying for the internship tonight after all. Or this year.

Swallowing down my bitter disappointment, I ask Dave, "Can you tell me exactly what's wrong with it?" Maybe I can get a second opinion.

He shrugs. "Sure. The engine block's got about seven cracks in it that I can see, and those are your biggest issues. In layman's terms, it means you've got to replace the engine." Shaking his head, he says, "I honestly don't know how that happened. Seven? That's not normal. The car overheated because your coolant's low, and it looks like your oil hasn't been changed in a couple of years, maybe. When was your last service?"

"Six months ago," I whisper, because stuff like that—coolant, oil change—that's all supposed to be done during a service. I might not know much about cars, but I know that. From the shock on Dave's face, quickly chased away by anger, my regular mechanic has been ripping me the fuck off.

"I'll give you a quote for a full repair that lists all the problems and the details for you to file a complaint with BAR," he says grimly.

"BAR?"

"Bureau of Automotive Repair. Whoever you used should get a hard smack for this. You could probably sue too."

Like that doesn't cost money I'm not going to have. Not to mention time. Either way, I'm staying in San Luco for another year.

"What happens now?" I ask. "It's not like I can just leave it here, but what you're saying is that it's not worth towing."

He winces. "Look, I'll take it back to the garage for tonight, and tomorrow I'll call the parts yard. The engine's shot, nobody's going to want anything from that, but the body's in great shape, and I can tell it's been taken care of. They might offer something for it, at worst enough to cover the cost of the tow."

I sigh. That's something, at least. "Thank you. Let me just get my stuff out." Not that I keep much in there—a couple of reusable grocery bags, a bottle of water, my spare sunglasses, and one of Jordan's hoodies that I borrowed a while back. I'm usually pretty good about bringing things inside and cleaning out any trash.

Standing safely on the sidewalk, I watch as Dave hooks up my ex-car, and then he comes over and gives me a business card. "Need a lift anywhere around here?" he offers, but I shake my head.

"Thanks, but I'll call my boyfriend. He'll be wondering what's keeping me anyway. Do I need to call or stop by tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm going to need you to sign some papers, and I'll have that information for you to file your complaint. Want me to ask around, see if anyone is selling a half-decent car?"

"That would be great, thanks." I give him my details, then wait forlornly until he's pulled away before calling Jordan.

"Hey," he says, "did you get another customer fall in love and keep you late to throw money at you? Because I'd be okay with being a kept man."

Any other time, I'd laugh and make a joke about already buying him pretty things, but instead I cringe. "I wish. Uh… my car broke down. Could you come and pick me up?"

"Oh, fuck. Yeah, of course. Where are you? Do you need me to call AAA or something?"

I can hear him moving, a door closing and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He's so sweet, but right now, I just feel envy that in his life, AAA is a go-to option, whereas in mine, it was an expense I chose to forgo. And it's not like they could help me now anyway.

"It's all taken care of," I say. It's not his fault he's got parents with money. "I just want to get home." I tell him where I am, and he's already starting his car when I end the call.

I'm really not that far from home—if Jordan hadn't been there, waiting for me, I would have walked it—and his car pulls up just a few minutes later. First I dump the bag of stuff in the back seat, then I climb in the front.

"Don't worry," Jordan declares, "dinner's keeping warm in the oven, and I also got ice cream. Plus, Reiner's cousin's husband is a mechanic here in town, so we'll get him to look over whatever your guy says, make sure you get the best deal. We got this, babe." He leans over to kiss my cheek, and tears prick my eyes.

I swipe them away angrily.

"Blaise?" Jordan's tone changes, becoming quieter, more worried. "What happened? The tow truck came already?"

"Yeah. I need a new car."

He puts the car in Park and turns off the engine. "Say what? I thought it just broke down! How can they know that already?"

I shrug. "Sometimes shit's just that bad. Take me home, please." I just want to be home.

So much for my gold star day.