Read Online The Art of Crash Landing by Melissa DeCarlo - Free Book Online Page B

I will have soon. I just inherited my grandmother’s house.” I don’t mention the creditors and I don’t mention the three months.
    â€œMiss Thayer’s house, right?”
    I nod.
    â€œHow old are you?” he asks.
    â€œThirty. Why?”
    He shakes his head. “No reason.”
    â€œHow old are you?” I’m just being obnoxious; I don’t give a shit how old this asshole is.
    He looks annoyed. “Fifty-four.”
    For all his weathered looks, he’s a year younger than mymother would be if she were still alive. “Maybe you knew my mother . . .”
    JJ studies me for a second before answering, “I knew her.”
    Wiping his hands again on the rag, he walks out of the garage bay and into the office. Through the window I can see him sorting through some papers scattered on the counter.
    The door beeps when I push it open. “So are you going to fix my car?”
    He shakes his head. “You bring me the money, we’ll talk.”
    â€œOh come on, what am I supposed to do? I don’t have the cash, but I’m good for it.”
    â€œIt’s company policy.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œWe don’t work on vagrants’ cars without some money up front.”
    â€œVagrant!”
    â€œHomeless. Broke. Destitute.”
    I sigh. “I know what vagrant means, and I’m not one.”
    â€œYou’ve got a lot of crap in that car.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œLooks to me like you’re living out of it.”
    â€œI’m in the process of moving.”
    â€œWhere to?”
    â€œI’m not sure.”
    â€œI rest my case.”
    â€œCome on, what am I supposed to do without a car?”
    â€œI need money up front to buy the parts. Company policy.”
    â€œShow me where that’s written down. I don’t see that posted anywhere.”
    He uses his spit cup again. “I didn’t write it down,” he says, wiping his chin, “because I couldn’t decide whether to put a hyphen between dead and beat .”
    â€œNice. Very nice.”
    I’m wondering if the man is just an evil fucker or if he’s smarter than he looks. I glance around the waiting area. The whole room smells like burned rubber. There are two orange chairs and between them a table piled with tired-looking newspapers. Above one chair is a framed print of John Wayne, above the other a framed print of Ronald Reagan. Perfect.
    â€œSo tow me to another shop.”
    â€œFifty bucks will cover the tow. Pay me that and I’ll do it.”
    I pull out my wallet and count bills. I count change. I dump my purse and count that change: $23.74. I look up in time to catch a smile on JJ’s face. He’s shaking his head.
    â€œYou could sell it to me.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe car. I’ll take it off your hands.”
    I feel clammy, nauseated, sitting in one of the orange chairs, staring at the meager wad of cash in my hands.
    Sell the Malibu?
    I take my time shoving everything back into my purse, hoping the asshole can’t see that I’m furiously blinking back tears. I wasn’t always certain what my mother thought about me, but there was never a question about how much she loved that car. She would hate for her car to belong to an asshole. Well . . . an asshole who wasn’t related to her, I should say. We’re all assholes sometimes.
    â€œI can’t sell it,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. My hands are shaking as I zip up my purse.
    â€œI’ll make you a fair offer.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œCan you afford to keep it? It’s going to be a couple thousand to fix this, then it’s only a matter of time before the next thing goes out.”
    â€œI know.” I lift my gaze to his and add, “But it was my mother’s.”
    I’m not sure what he sees in my eyes, but whatever it is, something hardens in