Good With His Hands Read online

  Lisa says it’s his “fuck me” eyes. Those eyes that imply that no matter what he’s doing, he’s also thinking about fucking, vividly imagining how he would pleasure any woman he met if they were naked and willing.

  His eyes are incredible, but until that conversation, I’d only thought of them as soulful, expressive—fitting the artist’s heart behind his grease-streaked overalls.

  But since Lisa said the “fuck-me” thing, every time I lock eyes with Jesse, it’s a struggle. A struggle not to think about him doing bad things to me. Or me doing bad things to him.

  I’m equal opportunity when it comes to bad things.

  At least, I think I am. Hard to say for sure, though, since it’s been a while. But no matter how long it’s been, friends with benefits isn’t an option when it comes to Jesse.

  I’m his little sister’s best friend.

  I am, because I refuse to put that part of what we were to each other in the past tense.

  I will always be Claire’s friend, just like I’ll always be his friend.

  I never expected Jesse to become someone who mattered so much to me. But when my life seismically shifted two years ago, Jesse and I shifted too.

  We became friends, good friends, the kind who need each other to survive.

  I’m not the kind of person who puts friendships like that at risk, or who crushes on guys who are out of my league.

  Jesse is a masterpiece hanging in a museum. I’m a quirky mug someone’s grandmother picked up at a craft fair.

  We don’t exist in the same more-than-friends universe.

  Even when he gives me a treasure map I didn’t know I was looking for, one that promises to turn my confused, stagnant, shell-shocked life around, I refuse to let my mind go there.

  Nope.

  Jesse and me? It’s never going to happen.

  We’re on two different paths, and that’s not going to change, no matter what happens this summer.

  Even if all roads do seem to lead back to him.

  1

  Jesse

  I’m ready.

  I park my hands on my hips, survey the garage, and drink in the place that’s been my second home for nearly a decade. Checking out the way this shop looks.

  Awesome.

  That’s how it looks.

  Best in the city, best in the Tri-state region. Hell, let’s be blunt—best in the country.

  It’s been dubbed the gold standard by countless magazines and papers, and topped tons of “best of” lists. That’s why my garage was featured in a reality series showcasing kick-ass rebuilt classics.

  Framed posters of the cars I’ve restored line the walls. Like the Studebaker Golden Hawk that dampened as many panties as the leading man who drove it for six seasons of The Bad Doctor.

  Or the 1971 Pontiac GTO that starred in a recent reboot of Disco Nights and Hollywood Days.

  And, my personal favorite—the sleek black Bentley that ended up splashed across the movie poster for a blockbuster spy flick.

  All courtesy of Jesse’s Garage.

  I’m barely thirty, and I’m one lucky bastard to have had my tools, my hands, and my vision all over these sweet wheels.

  Sweeping out an arm to encompass the goodness, I turn to my buddy Max. “Admit it. She’s perfect.” Because all garages, all cars, hell, all good things are shes.

  “Of course she’s perfect. That was the plan.” He sets the final page from a stack of documents on the counter beside us. He offers me a pen. “And because she is, I’ll need your John Hancock one last time.”

  I scratch out my signature on the final page, then hand it to him with pride thrumming through me.

  I did this.

  I made this happen.

  Max takes the pages, drops them into a folder in his messenger bag, and pats the side of it. The messenger bag is incongruous on a lawyer. But then again, so are the skinny pants and paisley patterned button-down. Max is rocking a look I call Brooklyn hipster attorney versus city-slicker in a three-piece suit.

  “And now you, sir, are the proud owner of a brand-new Edsel,” he says.

  “Anyone ever told you you’re a smart-ass?”

  “Anyone ever told you not to hire a friend as your business attorney?” he asks with a wink.

  “Look at you. A lawyer, cracking jokes.”

  “Almost as unheard of as hand delivery of documents from legal counsel.”

  “Benefits of being friends with said legal counsel.”

  He adopts a blank expression. “Friends? We’re friends?”

  I roll my eyes. “Dickhead.”

  He glances at his watch. “That’ll add another five minutes to your hour.”

  “But it took less than five seconds to say.”

  “Billing increments. You know how it goes.”

  “Speaking of you working off the clock for a buddy, want to grab a beer tonight to celebrate the deal?”

  He taps his chin. “Hmmm. In that case, add a full sixty minutes.”

  “Then I’m rescinding the offer.”

  “I suppose that’s only fair,” he says, then nods toward the street outside. “And yes, I would kill for a beer, but there’s a diaper at home needing changing. And then I have to play with my kid.” He rolls his eyes like toddler time is a drag, but I know it’s the opposite for Max. He’s crazy about his nearly two-year-old daughter, Penny.

  “Sounds like a fun Friday night.”

  “It’s my favorite kind,” he says, in a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Your secret love of the dad life is safe with me.”

  He taps his temple. “And all yours are safe in the vault.”

  I laugh, then clap him on the shoulder. “Good thing I’m an open book.”

  He takes off, and I wave goodbye, not really minding that we’re not grabbing a beer. Beneath the smart-ass, Max is relentlessly upbeat these days. He’s a lawyer happy with his practice, a man happy with his wife, and a dad over the moon to finally have the kid he and Theresa went through years of fertility treatments to conceive.

  And hell, I’m glad he’s living the good life. That’s how it should be. We should all be happy in the jobs we pick, with the people we fall for, enjoying the lives we choose to live.

  But sometimes his Zen gets under my skin.

  No matter how proud I am of the things I’ve accomplished, I haven’t quite found my sweet spot.

  By all counts, I should be on Cloud Nine. I’m a self-made man on the road to even bigger, brighter success thanks to this deal. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, so why does my gut feel . . . hollow?

  Own up to it, man.

  I have a pretty good fucking idea.

  And, with the paperwork finished, that’s the only loose end left to tie up here.

  It’s a big one.

  Huge.

  But there’s no time like the present, especially when you’re already operating on borrowed time.

  I fire off a text.

  * * *

  Jesse: Good luck this afternoon, Ruby. Big day for you, so here’s a huge congrats. Also, I’d love it if you could stop by later. I have something for you.

  * * *

  Ruby: Monkey wrench? Motor oil? New horn for my beach cruiser bike? Can it be one that sounds like an ice cream truck?

  * * *

  Jesse: Is this your way of telling me you’re getting into bike-based ice cream sales? So very you, with the side hustles.

  * * *

  Ruby: Ha. No way. I’m happy with a water bottle and a sketch book in my basket, thank you. But I’ll put that on my short list for alternative careers in case I get kicked out of the family business. And yes, I’ll stop by for the not-an-ice-cream-truck-horn surprise. Thank you.

  * * *

  Jesse: You’re welcome. I can throw in some motor oil too, if you want. Now that I think about it, that seems perfect for your big day. What newly sprung patient couldn’t use a big drum of motor oil sitting around the house? Good for keeping the arms buff, and
you can use it as massage oil in a pinch.

  * * *

  Ruby: You’re so good to me. See ya later!

  * * *

  Her words fly through the chink in my armor.

  I tuck my phone into my pocket and head back to finish organizing the parts room, my stomach suddenly sour.

  I want to be good to Ruby. Always. But I’m not sure what she’s going to think about the bomb I’m ready to drop this afternoon.

  I can guarantee one thing—this will be one helluva surprise.

  2

  Ruby

  It’s a beautiful day.

  The sun shines in a clear blue sky and a cool summer breeze blows through the park, carrying the scent of barbecue and cotton candy from a carnival underway on the other side of the lake. Children are laughing at the splash pad, birds are singing, and I'm officially done. I’m whole. Free.

  Steve, my militant-but-secretly-sweet-as-coconut-pie therapist, offers me a high-five as we finish our last physical therapy session, one he graciously agreed to conduct in the park, beneath my favorite shade tree.

  “Woman, you are a model patient. Truly.”

  I give a playful curtsy. “All I’ve ever wanted to be.”

  “What more could any person want?” he asks, before adding in a softer voice, “Seriously, you slayed this, Ruby. Take a moment and own it.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, falling silent for a few seconds as my heart swells. Steve has been a fixture in my life for 365 days times two. He’s been my cheerleader, my drill sergeant, and in some ways, my shrink. My throat goes tight. “I’ll miss you, but I’m also really glad I don’t have to see you again. Except at the grocery store when we’re buying cherry granola.”

  Steve and I have a habit of running into each other outside of therapy—he’s a life-long Park Sloper and I’m always in his neighborhood for work—so I know our paths will cross again. Just not while he’s forcing me to do squats until my femurs feel like they’re about to splinter into a thousand pieces.

  He squeezes my shoulder with a smile. “I get it, girl. That’s how it should be. Now go out there and conquer the world.”

  He pulls a cherry lollipop from his gym bag and offers it to me, making me laugh. “Even better than granola.”

  We wave goodbye, and I set off across the park.

  The candy melts on my tongue, filling my mouth with my favorite flavor on earth as I head up toward Sweetie Pies. I love cherries—fresh, baked, juiced, or reduced to their sweetly sour essence and used to flavor candy—I’ll take it all. Gladly. Gratefully.

  Any day with cherries in it is a good day.

  A day with cherries and a new lease on life? Heck, I should be dancing down the sidewalk, singing and twirling and tossing flower petals and hugging strangers. I should be triggering my own spontaneous musical number, complete with backup dancers and a solo by a famous tenor who sticks his head out of the sunroof of his limousine as it cruises by.

  Plus, Jesse has a surprise for me.

  My step should be springing like whoa.

  Instead, I have . . . dread.

  Dread, on a day I was positive was going to be a turning point, the end of the saddest portion of my life and the first page in a shiny new chapter titled “Back to Normal.”

  And the worst part is I have no idea why I feel like a balloon filled with poison is hovering over my head, primed to pop.

  Why dread? Why now, when my damaged legs are finally strong enough to carry me through a five-mile run, New York is enjoying its coolest, most delightful July in ages, and I have two weeks of vacation stretching out in front of me like a table filled with fancy supplies from my favorite East Village art store?

  I even have new pens and paints waiting for me at my apartment. Once we’ve closed up shop at Sweetie Pies for our annual summer break, I’ll be able to doodle and watercolor-wash for hours without anyone interrupting to ask if I’ve alerted the produce delivery service that we want the blueberries from Maine, not Vermont, because the Vermont ones are unacceptably squishy this year. Or to warn me that the rising price of buttermilk is a shocking development that should be factored into the budget for next month. Or to loudly, frantically, and dramatically fret that a freak November heat wave is going to ruin the Thanksgiving shipping season, and more than a hundred years of success will be wiped out due to poor performance in the fourth quarter.

  I do love being part of the family business—Sweetie Pies has been a Brooklyn tradition since 1915, when my great-grandmother started selling her now-world-famous caramel apple crumble off a cart near her Park Slope brownstone—but my parents are old pros at making mountains out of business molehills.

  Pete and Barb laugh more than any couple I know, but they also worry—a lot—about everything, from the price of eggs to the cleanliness of the sidewalk outside the shop to whether selling day-old pies is an affront to the Sweetie Pies commitment to quality or just good business sense.

  The one thing they haven’t seemed to worry about is me.

  From the day I woke up in the hospital after the accident, aching all over and not sure which pain was worse—the agony in my legs or the keening in my heart when I learned my best friend was gone—my mom and dad never doubted that I would make a complete recovery. I would not only walk again but run and dance and play hopscotch in the alley behind the shop with my kids someday, the way Mom did with Cousin Gigi and me when we were girls.

  Their faith carried me through so many dark days.

  They mean everything to me. I love them so much I can’t imagine a fate worse than disappointing the two best people I know.

  And why am I worried about disappointing them?

  I don’t freaking know.

  That’s the problem.

  That’s part of the dread. Cue the creepy music. Turn on the soundtrack. Ruby has dread. Welcome to life as a twenty-seven-year-old, buttercup. Now get over it.

  I toss my lollipop into the trash can by the shop’s back door and push into the storage room, still unsettled, and it’s . . . strange.

  Strange enough that I’m too distracted, too caught up in my own thoughts to realize my father’s shouted warning to, “Duck, baby!” is meant for me.

  The heavy weight of something warm and sticky slaps me in the face and I gasp, sucking in strawberry filling and coughing as the rest of the pie slides down my nose and chin, oozing over the front of my white cotton tank top before plopping to the floor.

  Ugh. How could I have forgotten Pie Toss Day?

  “Oh, honey, are you okay?” My mother rushes across the room as I swipe strawberry from my eyes and swallow the filling still in my mouth. “Why did you come in the back on Pie Toss Day?” she asks, echoing my thoughts.

  “I forgot,” I say, licking my lips. Mmm . . . still delicious, even two days old, proving my parents shouldn’t stress about the day-old section in the bakery case. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Mom rubs my back. “We’re sorry. It’s your big day. We should be celebrating your accomplishments, not hitting you in the face with Strawberry Splendor.”

  “Though red’s a great color on you,” Cousin Gigi calls from the line of staff and family members on the other side of the room, waiting for their turn to hurl an old pie at the target on the door—the employee with the most bull’s-eyes wins season tickets to the Coney Island amusement park, and the people who work here love fun, roller coasters, and beers and hotdogs on the boardwalk almost as much as they love sugar.

  I smile, trying not to think about my ruined tank top or the dread still floating around in my chest. “Thanks. You too. Cute dress.”

  Gigi twirls, sending the circle skirt of her red-and-white polka-dot vintage bombshell dress swinging around her.

  “Thank you,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest then gesturing to the arrangement of red balloons in the corner of the room. “I wore it to match your balloons. Congrats on finishing therapy!”

  “We bought them to bring to the restaurant tonight,” Da
d says, coming to stand beside Mom and reaching one big arm around both of us. “We didn’t think you were going to be able to make it this afternoon.”

  “Steve and I finished early, and I thought I’d swing by and see if you needed help closing up,” I say, blinking gloppy eyelashes. I’m definitely going to need a shower before dinner.

  Do I need to shower before I see Jesse?

  A small smile tugs at my lips. He’d probably get a kick out of pie on my face. Evidence of Sweetie-Pie-related insanity always makes him laugh.

  “No, but we need help over here,” Hank, the oldest member of our kitchen staff, booms. “These pies aren’t going to throw themselves, sweetheart.”

  My heart softens at the genuine affection in his voice. I’m so lucky to have a great family and a great work family. I shoot Mom and Dad a brighter smile. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “No, you can’t.” Mom hugs me tight to her side, whispering, “So proud of you, baby.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I hug her back and cross the room to claim my missiles of choice—coconut cream, because they’re light and my throwing arm isn’t built for distance.

  I pass a sweet, laughter-filled half hour goofing off with my tribe before bidding them goodbye and heading to see Jesse about his surprise.

  I wonder what it is?

  Something better than a pie to the face, probably. I really should clean up before I see him, but his garage is on the way to my apartment, and he truly won’t care if I’m a little gross. I’ve learned that about him as we’ve grown closer.

  He doesn’t sweat the small stuff.

  Makes sense, since he’s conquered the big stuff and come out on the other side a stronger person.

  But have I?

  As I make my way through the park to his garage, the dread creeps back in on soft, gloomy feet, banishing the smile from my face.

  What’s wrong with me?