Joy Ride
“West Coast, you say?” Patrick raises an eyebrow.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I chime in, joining them as I grab the bags Mia carries and peek inside to find fresh pasta, tomatoes, and a small bottle of vodka. “Penne with vodka cream sauce?”
“And a pine nut salad,” she adds, then turns to Patrick. “Max and I were going to cook dinner. My eyes are always bigger than my stomach, and bigger than Max’s stomach, too. Want to join us?”
My money is on Patrick saying yes. In fact, it seems to take a nanosecond for him to utter, “I’d love to.”
As Mia heads to the kitchen, I clap him on the shoulder. “Like I said, don’t get any ideas.”
Patrick puts his hands on his head as if they’re giant brain suckers. “There. All ideas have now disappeared from my head. I’m completely idea-less. Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I roll my eyes. “You do know what I mean, and don’t go there.”
My concern isn’t over him. He’s a great guy. He’d totally do right by my sister. I say it to protect her. She hasn’t had the best luck when it comes to falling for my buddies.
“Go where?” he asks as he follows my sister.
“You did not do that.” Mia adopts a stern stare, her forkful of pasta poised midair en route to her mouth.
“What’s the big deal?” I ask with a shrug.
“Max,” she admonishes me before she takes a bite of the pasta dish we whipped up.
“She was getting under my skin,” I say, defending my actions in the town car as I spear a piece of penne with my fork.
“Some women can do that to a man,” Patrick says, chiming in as if he’s my attorney. I feel as if I need one right now. Once we sat at the table, Mia asked me about my day. After I mentioned the car ride with Henley, Mia broke me down, wheedling all the details out of me.
Not the sordid ones about my thought process. But the ones about how I played hide-and-seek with Henley’s phone. Which was, evidently, a violation of some girl code I’m unaware of. You know, not being a girl and all.
“You took her phone,” Mia says. “You held it above your head. There’s only one woman you can do that to, and you shouldn’t do that to her either.”
Patrick furrows his brow. “I didn’t think you could do that with any woman.”
Mia looks at him and nods, as if she’s approving his statement. “This guy is smart. Follow his lead. And what I mean is that’s the kind of stuff a brother does to a sister.”
“Trust me,” I scoff. “I do not think of Henley like a sister.”
“Trust me. I’ve never done that to my sister,” Patrick says, puffing out his chest like he wants to win all the gold stars tonight.
I smack his shoulder. “Dude. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
Mia jumps right back in, womansplaining. “Women are private people. Henley might have photos on her phone she didn’t want you to see.”
My eyes widen. “Like dirty photos?”
She rolls her eyes as she takes another bite. “I just mean pictures of friends. Maybe a selfie from the gym. I’ve taken pictures of myself to chronicle my progress when I hired a personal trainer.”
“You do have really nice arms,” Patrick says in an admiring tone, reaching for a glass of water.
She flashes a smile as she glances briefly at her arms, since she took off her sweater as we cooked. She wears a light blue tank top now, and her arms are indeed toned. But those strong arms belong to my fucking sister, so I shoot Patrick another hands-off stare.
“You think Henley was annoyed because she didn’t want me to see shots of her arms?”
“Shots of her arms, pictures of her friends, photos of her cat. Maybe work information. Maybe she has contracts or memos on her phone. All I’m saying is no matter how much she needles you, you shouldn’t have pretended to abscond with her phone. Just apologize.”
I groan as I drag a hand over my jaw. “Crap.”
“I agree with Mia,” Patrick says.
I sneer at him. “I’m shocked you concur with my sister.” I meet Mia’s eyes. “I sort of apologized to Henley in the car.”
“You need to do it all the way, Max. Say it and mean it. It’s a small world, as you’re learning, and chances are you’re going to run into her again.” She sets her fork down and smirks. “I have to say, though, hats off to that girl. The feather-duster maid charade sounds hilarious.”
“Yeah, it killed me,” I say, deadpan.
When we’re done with the pasta and salad, we clear the plates and Mia returns to the table with a pint of coconut ice cream. She serves it, sliding a bowl to Patrick.
He points at the scoop, adopting an inquisitive expression. “Coconuts have hair and produce milk. Ever wonder why they aren’t mammals?”
Mia catches his conversational volley and lobs it right back to him with, “By that same token, why are sweetbreads anything but sweet? They’re organ meats. Glands, of all things.”
Patrick shudders.
“Shouldn’t sweetbreads refer to something like sweet, like monkey bread?” Mia adds, her tone intensely serious.
Patrick takes a spoonful of coconut ice cream. “I do love monkey bread. So much that I have a theory.”
“Please tell us your monkey bread theory,” I chime in, but Patrick and Mia ignore me.
“Hear me out.” Patrick’s eyes are on my sister. “My theory is this—it’s impossible to dislike monkey bread. Just try not to like it.”
“You can’t dislike it,” Mia seconds. “Honestly, it’s fair to say monkey bread can bring about world peace.”
I arch an eyebrow. “World peace?”
They nod in unison.
Maybe they’re onto something, because that gives me an idea.
9
The next day during my lunch break, I run a quick errand to the Sunshine Bakery uptown and return to the shop, working hard the rest of the afternoon on a restoration. Tonight is the meeting with David—drinks at Thalia’s to discuss our next steps. I should be able to patch up the Henley situation before then and cruise into business.
Since we start early in the day, once the clock ticks past four, I say good-bye to the guys and take off.
But my feet feel heavy, and a vague sense of dread courses through me as I walk. When a cab with an ad for a hot new action flick cruises by on 11th Avenue, I contemplate hailing it and heading to the nearest movie theater. As a leathered old woman leaves a bodega with a steaming cup of coffee, I consider ditching my plan and grabbing a French roast at a cafe somewhere else . . . anywhere but where I’m going.
But cafes aren’t my style, and avoidance isn’t either. I pride myself on being upfront and facing problems. Most of all on fixing problems. Ironic, in a way, since I thought I was pretty damn direct with Henley five years ago when I explained the problem with the ’69 Mustang Fastback she’d been working on while I was gone. I’d left the car in her capable hands, but the final work didn’t exactly go as planned.
I told her so when I saw what she’d done—a full-on paint job in champagne gold, but the client didn’t want that color.
The guy wanted lime gold. Subtle difference in shade, but to a Ford loyalist, it’s everything.
Her brown eyes had welled up with tears, and I’d felt like an ogre because she said she’d done what I told her to do. “You said it was champagne. I wrote down the paint code.” Those watery eyes had tugged at my heart, but I knew she didn’t want to be treated any differently because she was a woman, so I couldn’t let her tears sway me. Or her insistence. She grabbed her notebook and shoved it at me, trying to show me her notes for the build. But it didn’t matter that she wrote it down—she wrote it down wrong, and it had threatened my reputation. The client didn’t want his car in a different color, and he sure as hell didn’t want me delivering it late.