18. Chapter Eighteen

"God, no. The last time I changed a car battery was sometime in high school, I think. My mom's car. But I remember it being easy enough. As long as you've got the right size sockets, that is."

Coop laughs lightly. "I should, yeah," he says. Then he points to the left. "It's, uh, here. The driveway there."

I pull off the highway and into Coop's driveway, which is really just a long, flat stretch of dirt road. Ahead of us, I can see Coop's truck sitting just outside of an older mobile home, and beyond the home, there's a huge expanse of empty grassland that might have been an agricultural field at one point. Now, it's just knee-high weeds and grass. But it looks so quiet and peaceful, and it sort of reminds me of where I lived when we were kids back in Garrington. We'd had a much bigger house and only about three acres, but the land was a lot like this—an open field with a few trees, right out past the edge of town. Coop had lived about a mile away, near the school where his mom had taught first through third grade.

"I kinda miss this," I say as I pull up next to Coop's truck and put the car in park. "Omaha's so different. So much busier and louder and... I mean, don't get me wrong, I love my job and—and the city and everything. But I miss this. The quiet, you know?"

He doesn't answer, and when I glance sideways at him, I can feel a tension that hadn't been there a minute ago. He's sitting stiffly, staring toward his house.

"Uh, so, you want some help? With the battery, I mean?" I ask.

He's silent for another moment, and the muscle in his jaw tightens a little. Then he lets out a short breath and looks down. "No, uh, I should be able to handle it. But thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it."

God, I wish I could tell what he's thinking, and it honestly feels like he almost wants me to argue with him and insist I stay and help. But there's also something else there, something in his voice that's just tugging at me. And it's probably related to whatever his reason is for being so obviously reluctant to ask for or accept help, now and earlier, when he didn't want to take the money I offered him.

Or maybe his day's just been as long and exhausting and emotionally taxing as mine.

He starts to take his seat belt off, but he grimaces as he shifts in the seat.

And shit, I know that grimace. I see it all the time. It's one that says 800 milligrams of ibuprofen three times a day. At least now I have an excuse to stay and help.

I shut the car off, and I feel him look over at me, but I just shrug. "You're sore, man. Let me help?"

His grimace turns into a bit of a scowl, but he doesn't protest.

"Good," I say, and then I pop the trunk, open my door, and get out before he can even finish taking off his seat belt. By the time he's out of the car, I'm already lifting the battery out of the trunk.

He shakes his head as he meets me at the back of the car. "Here, I can do that. You don't have to, really." He reaches out to me to take the battery, but his movement is slow and stiff.

"Nah, man, I got it."

My heart aches a little. Either he's so used to having to do things on his own that he doesn't know how to accept help or he really just doesn't want me here. Both options hurt. I try to give him another reassuring smile as I shut the trunk with my free hand, then hook my thumb toward his truck.

"You have the tools? We need a socket wrench and some disposable gloves, if you have them. Or, uh, at least a rag. I think that's it."

I'm going for laid back and friendly. But I can tell he's really not comfortable still. Or at all. There's another sort of tightness in his shoulders that I don't think has anything to do with him being sore.

And god, I really don't want him to feel uncomfortable. Really. I just want to help.

He drops his hand back to his side and then awkwardly stuffs both hands in his pockets. "Yeah, I think I've got everything. Fuck, I hope so," he says, and he's not even really looking at me now. "Should be in the house. I'll, uh, be right back." He turns away and walks toward the house, his steps stiff and measured.

I watch as he disappears inside, and I'm trying not to feel all sorts of things right now. That I've overstepped. That he doesn't want me here. I mean, really doesn't want me here. That I'm looking for something that's never going to be recoverable—our friendship.

And I desperately hope that's wrong.

When he returns a few minutes later, I've already popped the hood to his truck, and I'm inspecting the old battery, hoping he's got disposable gloves, because otherwise, this is gonna get messy no matter what I do. But he's frowning and carrying only a small toolbox and a white rag—definitely not gloves.

"Sorry, no gloves," he confirms, shaking his head. He stops next to me and sets down the toolbox, trying to hide another grimace as he straightens up. "Sorry," he says again, this time with a small smile.

"Ah, that's okay, man. No problem, really." I smile back, glad that at least some of that tension is gone, maybe. Then I lean over and take another look under the hood, trying to gauge what size socket we need, while I slip my coat off. It's a bit cold out, but I'd rather be cold for a few minutes than get my coat dirty. I fold it up and set it on a tree stump nearby, then I roll up my sleeves. "I think it's... hmm. Yeah, I think we probably need a ten-millimeter socket."

"A ten-millimeter . . . mm-hmm."

God, his voice. It's taken on this richness that's just deep and sends some flood of heat rushing through me, followed quickly by something of a shiver.

Shit, I'm not sure what's going on.

When I look up at him, he's sort of staring at me. He's got one hand on the back of his neck, and he's doing that thing where he bites his lower lip. Which is sexy as hell.

And suddenly I can't stop staring. And remembering. His mouth. That kiss. How it felt to hold him, how warm he'd felt pressed up against me, how hot his lips and tongue had been.

There's another rush of heat, and it goes straight to my groin this time. And god, it's good and dizzying, and I want more.

I bite back a groan and fight the urge to tell him. Instead, I just clear my throat, and he blinks as though coming out of some sort of trance. His eyes are still dark and deep. And that heat's now spreading all the way down into my toes.

"The—the, uh, ten-millimeter socket. Do you—do you have one?" God, I'm stammering now, and my face feels hot with embarrassment. I desperately hope he can't tell what I'm thinking, but he's gotta know that something's up.

He narrows his eyes at me for a second and then seems to force a half-smile as he reaches up and adjusts his baseball cap. "Oh, uh, right. Ten millimeters. Yeah, one sec."

It takes us about fifteen minutes, which is probably a bit longer than it should, but we get the battery switched out, check that the truck starts, and clean up all the tools. I move the old battery to the back of the truck so he can drop it off for disposal at the auto parts store, and he closes the hood.

There's a brief awkward pause then, and I wonder what he's thinking as he stares off toward the house, his jaw tight again. The silence is broken by a cold breeze, which makes me shiver. My coat's still sitting on the tree stump, and my hands are covered in engine dust and grime, although I had managed to not get my shirt dirty.

I frown as I glance back up at Coop, and he's watching me and biting his lip again. He blinks and then shakes his head as his eyes dart to his house.

"You, uh, wanna come inside for a few so you can wash your hands? Sorry, I—" He cuts himself off with another shake of his head and then motions toward the house.

"Yeah, thanks, that'd be great," I say quickly, and I'm trying to ignore the urge again to tell him... god, I'm not even sure what.

Damn, man, that's just sexy. Can I kiss you?

Yeah. That'd go over really well, I'm sure.

He nods, but I see it again—his eyes darkening. And this time, they also dart down from my eyes to my lips. Then he shakes himself a bit, swallows tightly, and turns to lead me toward the house.

God, I just . . . don't even know.

He jogs up the few steps leading into the house, opens the door, and ushers me in ahead of him. And it's about what I'd expected, really. The house is small but clean. There's a couch and modest TV in the living room right as we walk in, a tiny kitchen to the right, and then a hallway that must lead to the bedroom on the left. And the décor is... sparse. There's a single photo hanging on one wall—looks like it's a picture of him and his mom—and then a couple of books sitting on a coffee table just in front of the couch. Otherwise, that's it.

"Uh, the, uh, bathroom's just down the hall on the right," he sort of mumbles as he closes the door and steps up next to me. He takes off his baseball cap and then grimaces as he stares down at the ground. "It's... um, the water can take some time to heat up. Sorry about that."

Dammit, is he embarrassed about his house? My stomach clenches at the thought, but it sorta fits, given his behavior.

I give him a quick smile and nod. "No worries, man. Thanks. I'll be right back."

The bathroom is small, but like the rest of the house, it's clean. I take a few minutes to really scrub all the black gunk off and then dry my hands on a towel. My phone rings just as I'm leaving the bathroom.

I recognize Brenna's ringtone right away.

I haven't talked to her since I dropped her off at her parents' house this morning, and that reminder makes my chest feel tight. She wouldn't be calling if she didn't want to talk to me, right?

And this morning at the diner—god, her dad would be home from work by now, and he's probably told her about what happened. My stomach hurts, and there's a heavy weight pressing down on me, another reminder of just how much I've screwed up everything.

I mean, even though I didn't do anything wrong at the diner this morning, it's completely possible she's realized how angry she should be with me.

But this is Brenna. My best friend who's probably the most genuine person I know and who promised me this morning that she still loves me and she'll always support me.

So I should answer.

I pull my phone out of my pocket as I walk toward the living room. Coop's still standing just about where he was a few minutes ago, his hands awkwardly clasped in front of him, and he looks up at me with raised eyebrows as I approach.

"You gonna answer?"

"Um, yeah. It's—it's Brenna. I probably should. You mind?"

He shakes his head with a weak smile. "I'll just go wash my hands. Be right back."

I try not to let my hand tremble as I swipe up on my phone's screen to answer the call, but it does anyway.

"H-hello?" Great. My voice is shaking too. I definitely feel sick.

"Hey, Josh," Brenna says. And with just those two words—just hearing her say my name, her voice so soft and caring—I almost immediately feel better.

She's not mad at me. Somehow, she's still not mad at me. The heavy weight on my chest lifts.

"Hey, Bren. Um, are you okay? What's—what's up?" I turn slightly toward the kitchen as I reach up and rub the back of my neck. From the other end of the line, I hear what sounds like a sniffle.

"I just had to call you after I—" She lets out a long breath, and I hear some rustling or something. "Josh, I-I can't believe my dad. I'm so sorry he did that, I just can't believe he'd—"

She stops herself with some sort of frustrated sigh, and I close my eyes and shake my head.

"It's not your fault, Bren. I'm—I mean, it's..."

"I know," she says quietly. "But I needed to—I wanted you to know I didn't—" Another short breath, and then she seems to gather herself, although her voice is still shaky. "I didn't tell him or my mom why, um, why the wedding's... not happening. And I guess because I was so upset this morning, he just assumed you must have done something to hurt me. And that's not—that's not what happened. And I'm sorry."

I want to hug her, both because I can hear the hurt in her voice—which I know is all my fault—and because of how amazing she is.

"I'm sorry, Bren. I'm sorry, and I hate that I've made you upset." I close my eyes briefly, and when I speak again, my voice is thick. "And I really appreciate that, um, that you didn't mention why..."

"It's not for me to tell, Josh," she says slowly, and her tone is so compassionate and reassuring. Still. Again. Always. "It's your choice. If and when and... to whom."

God, it's as though she knows the depth of this suffocating shame and guilt I've felt about my sexuality for so long.

I let out a shaky breath. "I appreciate it. I appreciate you. So much. And I'm so, so sorry, Bren. I should have told you a long time ago, and I wish—I wish I could..."

I trail off as I hear the bathroom door open, and I turn to see Coop heading toward me. He points to the kitchen and gives me a small smile, and I nod an acknowledgement as Brenna clears her throat.

"So, um, are you busy? My dad, he, um, wants to apologize to you. In person."

I wasn't expecting that, and my quiet "oh," which I didn't really mean to say out loud, probably tells her as much.

"I understand if you don't want to see him," she says quickly, "but he genuinely feels badly about how he behaved, and—"

"Yeah, um, it's okay. Yeah. I can—I can stop by. Um, maybe fifteen minutes or so?"

There's a noise from the kitchen, and I glance over in that direction. Coop's watching me, and when our eyes meet, he blinks and looks away, back to the open cupboard in front of him. His expression is tight but otherwise not really readable, and not for the first time this afternoon, I wonder what he's thinking.

"That sounds good. I'm looking forward to seeing you," Brenna says in that same soft voice.

God, it's only been part of a day, and I miss her already.

She thanks me and apologizes again, and we hang up. Then, I stuff my phone back into my pocket and turn toward the kitchen. Coop closes the cupboard and shifts to face me, resting back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

He must have taken off his coat at some point, and he's wearing one of those short-sleeved blue shirts I've seen him wearing at the diner. And not gonna lie, my heart speeds up. A lot.

"I guess I won't offer to make you some coffee or tea then," he says, although there's a hint of a question to it, and that makes my heart race even faster. Does he want me to stay?

I want to say something I probably shouldn't. And the longer I hold his gaze, the closer I am to doing just that. I finally just manage a light laugh, and I tear my eyes away.

"Yeah, uh, sorry. I mean . . ."

Ah, dammit, I can't help it. I look back up at him, and he's stepped away from the counter, looking almost disappointed. Shit. He does want me to stay. What does that even mean? And why do I expect it to mean anything?

"I can stay—if you want," I blurt out. Because I really can't stop myself. And because I really don't want to leave, even as awkward as this feels.

His eyes narrow. "Isn't it something serious? I wasn't eavesdropping or anything, but it sounded like something serious."

"Uh, no. No, not really. Brenna's dad just wants to... apologize for, you know, this morning."

"Ah, right. I meant to ask you what that was all about this morning. But I didn't want—uh, I mean, it didn't seem like any of my business, really..." He trails off but takes another step in my direction.

There's the urge again—I want to tell him that it is one hundred percent his business. That I want it to be his business. That I want... him. And that's why...

I look down at the floor again and close my eyes, but I can feel as he moves a little closer. My whole body seems to react—all warm and tingling. And I imagine his arms around me, his lips on my throat, his hand slipping under my shirt, his fingers touching me.

And god, this is why, Coop. This is why.

I need to tell him.

"I, um... I mean we—Brenna and I—we, um, called off the wedding."

I look up at him, and I have no idea how to read his expression or what my expression might be telling him. All I know is that he's only a few feet from me now, and that distance still feels like too much.

"We aren't . . . together anymore."