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I should say no. Just say no, Sonnet. Say no.

Once again, my mouth doesn’t listen to my brain. “Yes.”

Dumb fucking brain.

“Good.” Once again - shivers. Down my entire body. “Send me your location. I’ve got the truck.”

There are no pleasantries when he hangs up, just a loud click and the assumption I’ll do as he says. Luckily for him, I don’t want to walk home.

I send him a pin for my location and lean against Betsy; the car still hot despite being turned off for ten minutes now. The sound of Miles’ voice continues to run through my brain. It shouldn’t have felt that good speaking to him again. It should hurt. It does hurt, but not for the reasons I thought it would. It hurts because, despite everything, I missed him.

Miles Cole used to be my best friend. We met freshman year and bonded over a shared hate for our biology teacher, Mrs. Ackerman. I helped him pass Art and English, and he helped me pass Algebra - we both barely passed Biology. He protected me from everyone who called me weird and picked on me for my glasses, and I threatened to fight girls who wouldn’t take a hint that he wasn’t interested. It was a mutually beneficial friendship that quickly turned into us being inseparable - and then that turned into the biggest crush of my life.

Miles wasn’t interested in anyone, though. He wanted to focus on his classes and graduate high school, something neither of his parents did, and I didn’t want anyone who wasn’t him. I always thought…

It doesn’t matter what I thought, because senior year, it all came crashing down.

I caught him with Mercedes Wynn, the resident mean girl and beautiful in all the ways I wasn’t. They were pressed up together under the bleachers, in our spot, while Mercedes was telling him how she made me trip in art class. I had cups of paint in my hands, and they ended up spilled all over me. I was searching for Miles so I could borrow one of his shirts. Instead, I heard everything. I heard her tell him, and I heard him laugh. Then I walked around the corner and saw them kiss.

My heart broke that day. No matter how much Miles tried to tell me I didn’t understand, I knew I understood completely. He fought my bullies for me when I was with him, but when I wasn’t, he laughed with them. We had a pity friendship.

I ignored every text and every call, cutting him out of my life completely until he no longer tried to contact me. He took Mercedes to the senior prom just one month later. Two months later, I went off to college. I returned three years ago and heard he worked for Maple Auto, but I luckily never had a reason to call the town’s mechanic shop.

Until tonight.

The sight of approaching headlights has me holding my breath and smoothing my shirt down over my stomach. I curse myself when I remember what I’m wearing – a pair of bright pink pajamas with kittens all over them. I wanted to be comfortable on my drive home, but it looks like I’ll be making a fool out of myself instead.

The truck slows to a stop next to me, and the driver’s side door closes with a bang before a shadow steps in front of the truck, blocking the headlights. I bring my hand up to my eyes, trying to see a little clearer. I wish I hadn’t.

Miles stands about ten feet away, his dark brown hair sticking up at all angles as his green eyes pierce into mine. “Sonnet.”

Always Sonnet and never Sonny, not with him. He once told me he didn’t want me watered down in any way, not even in name. I wonder if he still believes that?

“Miles. Um…thanks for coming.” I spin around, one hand going to the bumper while the other points at my engine. “I don’t know what happened. I was driving, and all of a sudden, there was a noise, and smoke started pouring out.”

I feel more than hear him come to stand beside me, his body dwarfing mine as he does. Miles had never been small, but time has done him justice. He’s bulked out, his forearms nearly as big as my head. He’s lean but muscular, his t-shirt gripping him in all the right places as well as his jeans.

Jesus, maybe I should join a gym. I’m more pudge than muscle, and my thighs are jelly instead of toned like his. Not only that but -

“Sonnet. When’s the last time you changed your oil?”

His voice has my head shooting up from his abdomen to the dipstick he has held in his hand. I can’t see him well in this light, but I can only imagine the look he’s shooting my way - disapproval. Like the time he caught me throwing away one of my art pieces after one of my bullies had made fun of the way it looked.

“Um…I...can’t remember. How often should I be changing it? Is that what’s causing the smoke?”

Oil change! Of course, I hadn’t had an oil change - he works at the only mechanic shop in town!

“Every six months, or about every six thousand miles.”

So, I’m about three years over. Oops.

I don’t say that, though. Instead, I give him a nod and a large sigh, “So…it needs an oil change?”

He laughs, no doubt at the hope in my voice. “It did. Now you probably need a new engine.” He waves me back and quickly replaces the dipstick before closing the hood. “Grab whatever you need, and I’ll hook the car up to take it to the shop. I’ll have a time frame and an estimate for you tomorrow.”

“You’re open tomorrow?”

“No.”