“I’m—I’m sorry,” he finally stutters. Tears well in his eyes, and he lets out a grunting sigh.

I stand up and start heading to the back door. “I know you’ve got a lot of shit to sort through right now too, but maybe you should think about just being with yourself and putting yourself first before you can do that for anyone else.” I almost hate myself for even saying it, because it’s the kind of bullshit advice people give that they can never actually act on for themselves, but there’s still truth to it. There’s still something to be gleaned.

I do something that surprises even myself. I reach out to Lucas and I pull him to me in a fierce and tight hug.

He grips onto me and hiccups, holding back tears. It’s enough to make my eyes water, and before I know it, I’m blinking back tears too.

I didn’t know how much I needed this. To just be held. To be held without expectations or exceptions. And so we stand there for a moment in the back of a grimy little gas station, two lost boys.

“Come on,” I finally say. “This booze isn’t going to load itself.”

“Friends?” he asks.

I nod. “Messy former-friends-with-benefits friends.”

Nineteen

“Come out already!” I say, banging on the bathroom stall.

“Do I have to wear the bow tie?” Tucker asks.

“It’s a look,” I explain. “Besides, I paid money for it, and I wouldn’t call my current financial situation thriving.”

“To be clear, when you said matching outfits, I thought you meant like T-shirts from Walmart.”

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just insult me,” I say. I’m not insulted by the implication that I would shop at Walmart. I’ll shop at whatever store has clothing that will fit my body. What I am insulted by, however, is the notion that I would ever believe a T-shirt constitutes an outfit.

“I can’t promise the bow tie will last.” Tucker kicks the door open.

I gasp. “My vision! Yes!”

I turn around to see both of our reflections in the mirror. The first thing my brain wants to notice is how I’m fat and he is not, which is extremely apparent in our matching outfits, but I force myself to look past that. We both wear white coveralls and red bow ties with red-and-white-striped page boy hats. My idea was candy striper/milkman turned mechanic chic. Mrs. Leonard got us out of classes for Wednesday, so we both separately spent Tuesday scrambling around for important supplies. Matching uniforms, I decided, were very important supplies. We also had to get an announcement out to the teachers, but I pulled some strings with Kyle, who used his office aide hour to print and copy flyers for the faculty mailboxes. To be fair, I had just discreetly delivered a whole ton of booze to his house the night before. He owed me.

Tucker runs his hands over his name embroidered on his chest. “This is pretty cool,” he admits.

“My grammy embroidered them with her machine.” A fashion sense like hers is not direct from the rack.

He nods. “Grammy gets five out of five stars. But you know this white is totally impractical, right?”

I flip my invisible hair. “I never said my vision was practical.”

The two of us head back out to the parking lot, where our trucks are parked side by side. I brought a few boxes of doughnuts and Mom put together a few thermoses of coffee, while Tucker brought every supply for changing oil we could possibly need.

“Does she have a name?” I ask.

“The truck?” He smiles. “Xena.”

“Xena? As in the warrior princess?”

“The one and only. What about you?”

“Beulah,” I say.

He nods with admiration. “Beulah and Xena. They make a good couple.”

Why does the idea of our trucks being in a long-term committed relationship make me want to puke but also twirl around the parking lot like Julie Andrews? “I don’t think I’ve ever seen campus this early in the morning,” I say, changing the subject.

“Oh, I have during football season. Kind of peaceful, right?”

I begin to set up a little coffee bar on the bed of my truck using a tablecloth Mom lent me.

Tucker pulls a pen and clipboard from his backpack.

“Smart.”

He sets up all the tools and oils he might need in the bed of his truck.

“So why’d you miss school Monday?”

“Work,” he says simply.

“What?” My dad is not an easy boss, but would never, and I mean never, let a high school student work through the day. He rarely even hires high school kids, because he doesn’t want to interfere with school.

“Not for your dad,” he clarifies. “At my, uh, dad’s shop.”

I nod. “Were you just helping out?” I wonder why he doesn’t only work for his dad. That seems like plenty to keep him busy.

“You could say that.”

“So you have two jobs?”

He laughs. “Only one that pays.”

“Do you mean your dad doesn’t pay you?”

I pour a cup of coffee for myself and hold one up to offer him.

“Dad’s shop is hanging on by a string and he doesn’t always get it together to open up the shop in the morning, so I’ve got to fill in sometimes. If we’re not open, we’re not making money, and if we’re not making money, we don’t have a roof over our heads. My job with your dad is how I pay for gas and food and basic stuff we need.”

“Wow.” I don’t even have one job. Sometimes I’ll do odd jobs over the summer, but Mom and Dad have always told me and Clem they didn’t want us working during the school year. “You said your dad doesn’t always get it together . . .”

He takes a sip of coffee and watches me from over the brim of his cup. “Must be nice to have a dad who has it together.”

He doesn’t say it in a judgmental way, but I still feel very judged.

“Well, good morning, good morning,” says Mr. Higgins, way too much pep in his step for this early. “Did someone say complimentary oil changes?”

“Uh, heck yes, we did,” I say, taking the clipboard. “Let me get you signed up.”

He dangles a set of keys in front of my nose. “Be careful with this beaut.” He points over his shoulder to a fading champagne-colored Toyota Camry. “My Delilah . . . she’s the only woman in my life.”

“I find that so surprising,” I say dryly.

Tucker claps Mr. Higgins on the back. “We’ll take good care of Delilah.”

Mr. Higgins hands over an envelope. “Group project in class today, so you two are paired together and need to get this in to me by tomorrow night.”

“You mean we have to change your oil and do homework for you?” I ask.

Mr. Higgins laughs maniacally and walks off into the building.

“You’re like some kind of Disney villain!” I call after him. “But not in a fabulous way.”

Tucker laughs. “Well, this sucks. I have to work tonight. For your dad,” he clarifies.

I yank the folder out of his hand. “I’ll bring you dinner and we can work on it during your break. I’ve got some sway with the boss man.”