The Break-Up Psychic (5 page)

“You have one new voice message.”

Dear God, if you’re there and you’re not too busy with, you know, handing out miracles and such, can you please make this message be from my ex? Also, could you maybe set a plague upon him? Nothing too serious, maybe just a herd of flesh-eating locusts?

“Press one to listen to your messages.”

I know it’s just a voicemail, but my finger feels heavy as I press the 1 on the keypad and lift the phone to my ear.

“Ellie, it’s your mother. I have some very exciting news – call me!”

I let out a sigh of relief, and tap the number 7 on my phone to delete the message; I’ll call her back later. I’m actually glad it wasn’t Tim calling me. I’m not sure I want to see or speak to that lying snake ever again. I toss the phone into my purse and head for my car. I know I shouldn’t put off calling my mom back, but I’m not looking forward to telling her about my breakup with Tim. Anyway, my mother’s idea of important news usually correlates directly to the front page of US Magazine.

I love my mom. The woman raised me on her own after Dad left us to start his new family. I know his leaving was hard on her, but she tried her best to never let me see it. The day after he left, she gave me one of her bone-crushing hugs and said,
“Your father will always love you, but I love you more.”
I remember looking at her, shocked that she would say such a thing, but she was smiling at me and I started cracking up and that’s how it’s been from that time since. Mama and me against the world.

The tow truck took Luanne’s beater down to the repair shop on 5
^th
Street which is just around the block from Brook’s Bath and Body Shop. I park in my usual spot and decide to make a rare attempt at exercise by walking there. Maybe it was to restore balance to nature, but the Universe, foreseeing my disastrous love life, saw fit to provide me with a naturally slim figure. Good thing too, because I have a bit of a Ding-Dong habit. Like a three box a week, I’ll bite your hand off if you try to take one from me, habit.

As I pass by the City Bakery, the sweet smell of sugar and vanilla waft over me. I take a deep breath, enjoying the scent on the warm morning air that’s not yet hot enough to be uncomfortable. I step around breakfast patrons eager to claim their stools at Becky’s Diner next door, probably foregoing menus in favor of the ‘usual.’ My stomach growls at the thought of Becky’s homemade cinnamon rolls and I make a mental note to grab one on my way back to Brook’s.

I turn down the alleyway toward the repair shop’s front office which stands glinting white in the morning sun. There’re a lot of indistinguishable sounds coming from inside the garage and two men with greasy hands and matching blue button-up work shirts are loitering around one of the garage doors, smoking and looking predictably surly.

“Hi, excuse me?” I ask, approaching with caution. “I’m here to pay for some repairs.”

Both men look me over – head to toe. My face heats up under their gaze. Suddenly I wish I was wearing a parka.

“Sure,” says the man nearest to me, “just head on into the office over there and Jason will fix you up.”

“Thanks.” I turn and walk toward the shop’s entrance, well aware that their eyes are glued to my ass.

The office seems smaller on the inside. It’s clean with two vinyl waiting chairs, a small table with a coffee maker and stacked Styrofoam cups, and various magazines spread across an end table against one wall. It smells fresh, like newly washed laundry, and I spot an automatic air freshener mounted to the wall near the counter. No one’s behind the desk so I wait in one of the chairs and flip through an old
People
magazine. My God, what’s wrong with these young Hollywood actresses? You make millions of dollars, buy some underwear!

The door behind the counter opens, and what looks like a Yeti enters the room.

“Good
mornin
’, sweetheart, how I can I help you?”

“Are you Jason?” I ask, getting to my feet.

“Sure am. How can I be of service?”

Jason is huge, well over six-and-a-half feet tall with long frizzy hair, a wild beard, and the girth of an NFL linebacker.

“Oh, um…I’m here to pay for some repairs on Luanne Collette’s truck.”

“Luanne, huh? Woo-wee, that girl’s a firecracker. How’s she
doin
’?” Jason gives me a big smile and leans over the counter, placing his forearms against the white Formica. It elicits an ominous creak beneath his weight and I take a tentative step backward.

“She’s Luanne, there’s no one else like her,” I say, shaking my head.

“You got that right. Tell her old Jason says hello and that I’ll be
stoppin
’ by The Cavern real soon for a re-match.”

“A re-match?”

“She’ll know what I mean.”

I don’t like the way his lips have curled over his teeth at the thought of a re-match with Luanne. I’m worried he may be thinking of eating her.

“I’ll let her know. Do you have a bill for the work on her truck?”

Jason pushes himself away from the counter, the action extracting another worrying creak, and rummages through a stack of carbon-paper bills next to a surprisingly new laptop computer.

“It’s
gonna
be three hundred sixty-seven dollars and twelve cents, after tax.”

I dig into my purse and retrieve my checkbook while Jason clumsily pushes buttons on the computer's keyboard. I hope the computer is made of titanium.

Three-hundred sixty-seven dollars is going to leave me with about twenty-three bucks in my account until payday, three days from now. Looks like I’ll be brown-bagging it at lunch for the rest of the week.

Head buried in my checkbook, I ask, “Who do I make the check out to?”

“SJ Auto Body and Repair,” calls out a deep, somewhat familiar voice. “And make sure to write your phone number on the memo line.”

“My phone number?” Confused, I look up to find Sam, the
hottie
from the bar last night, standing in the doorway behind the counter. He’s smiling widely at me, perhaps amused by the way my lower jaw refuses to meet with my upper jaw. I hear Mama’s voice saying,
“Close your mouth, honey, it makes you look easy.”

“Hi!” I say before clamping my jaws together.

“Ellie, right?” Sam’s deep voice sends vibrations through my chest and compels me forward a step.

“Yes, Ellie. That is my name, and you’re Sam the hot—I mean, Hart’s friend, from the bar.” Smooth.

“Well, friend is a bit of a stretch. He’s my great-uncle, actually.”

“Oh, Luanne didn’t mention that.”

“So you were asking Luanne about me, huh?” Sam takes up Jason’s now vacated spot at the counter and leans forearm down against the Formica; the hard plastic remains creak-free.

An involuntary blush springs to my face and chest as I think of a way to refute his entirely accurate statement. I did, in fact, corner and interrogate Luanne about Sam the minute we walked through her door last night. She scolded me for wanting to know anything about him, given that he checks every box on my list of things to steer clear of. Still, she could’ve told me he worked at the repair shop I’d be headed to this morning, something which I’m sure she’s currently taking great pleasure in.

“What? No, of course I didn’t talk to Luanne about you! No, no, no. Don’t be ridiculous!” Shrill, accusatory and reprimanding. Just the direction I was looking to take the conversation in.

Sam holds both of his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, so you didn’t ask about me. I must be losing my touch.” He takes a step back from me, a.k.a. the crazy lady, but his smile is genuine, and that dimple…oh, that dimple.

“So you work here?” I ask, trying to collect myself.

“In a manner of speaking. I own the place. SJ stands for Sam James. That’s me, in case you’ve already forgotten my name,” he teases.

My anxiety over our surprise encounter is melting away under his warm demeanor. “No, I haven’t forgotten.” I break his gaze and tear off the check, handing it to him. His fingers linger against my own as he accepts the payment, triggering an eruption of goose-bumps up my arm. “So, when do you think Luanne’s truck will be ready?”

“Should be ready to go by tomorrow morning. Is Luanne okay for transportation until then?”

“Aw, hell, I can give
ol
’ Luanne a ride if she needs one.” I jump at the sound of Jason’s voice. I've completely forgotten he's still in the room, and this is a man the size of a compact car.

“She’ll be fine,” I say. “She’s not working again until Friday and I’ve already offered to drive her to her classes.”

“Luanne’s in school?” Sam asks.

“She’s in beauty school. She wants to be a hair and makeup stylist.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe I can stop by the apartment sometime and get her to give me a haircut,” Sam says, pushing a hand through his thick, sandy brown hair. I briefly consider collecting the shorn locks of his hair to keep in my jewelry box. Surely that’s a perfectly acceptable thing to do and not in any way creepy.

“I’m sure she’d love the practice,” I say, unable to keep the smile from my face as I back away from the counter, clutching my purse to my chest like armor. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get going. I’ll be late for work.”

“Well, let me walk you to your car,” Sam offers, coming around the counter toward me.

“Oh, that’s so nice of you, but I actually walked here. I parked at work just around the block.”

“Well then, let me walk you to work,” he insists.

As he passes by me to open the shop’s door, I catch a whiff of what I can only describe as brute manliness. I call a thank-you to Jason and purposefully brush by Sam who’s holding the door open for me. I have this nervous habit of pushing hair behind my left ear. Mama used to tell me that my hair was going to fall out on that side of my head if I didn’t stop it. If that's true, I'm going to be half-bald by the time we make it to Brook’s Bath and Body Shop.

“Thanks for offering to walk me back. It’s just around the corner there,” I say, pointing to the intersection up ahead.

“It’s my pleasure."

He’s walking so close to me that the hairs on my arm are standing on end as if from an electric shock. His arms are tan and muscular, and his chest is deliciously broad. I’m glad he’s so much taller than me. It makes it easier to hide the fact that I’m stealing sidelong glances at him. I wonder what he does when he’s not working on cars or saving damsels in distress from railroad tracks…

“You okay? You look a little dazed.” Sam’s voice breaks my highly inappropriate train of thought and, yep, there goes the hair behind the ear again.

“So, um, I never got to hear your story. How long have you owned the shop?” I say quickly, forcing my eyes to the sidewalk ahead of us.

“It’s been about three years now. My dad was a mechanic and he worked at the shop until he retired five years ago. I guess being a grease monkey is in my blood because the minute I could hold a wrench, I was at the shop, helping Dad and learning the trade. I started working there myself right out of high school and when my old boss put it up for sale, I decided to buy the place. It’s worked out pretty well so far.”

We turn at the intersection and I can see the Bath Shop just ahead of us. Would he notice if I slowed our walk considerably? Should I fake a leg injury?

“That’s great,” I say. “It sounds like you’re doing what you love, which is more than I can say.”

“You don’t love your job?”

“No, I mean, it’s fine, but it’s not exactly my dream job.”

“Then what is your dream job?”

Sam stops walking and turns to face me, genuine curiosity in his expression. I look into his warm hazel eyes and find myself wanting to tell this man everything. Well, maybe not everything… The truth is that my dream job is to find my Happily Ever After with a gorgeous husband, two point five kids, and a three bedroom Cape Cod house complete with a drawer full of handmade jewelry involving yarn and macaroni. I suspect it may be too soon to share this kind of truth.

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Well, lucky for you I’m an expert at uncovering dream jobs,” he says, resuming our walk.

“Is that so? And is this a gift you were born with or a skill developed over time?”

“More of a natural ability, I guess.”

“Well that
is
lucky for me,” I say, thinking of my own gift. It’s funny, but until this moment, I hadn’t noticed the lack of alarm bells. This guy rides a motorcycle and looks like sin on a stick. If he isn’t a bad boy, I don’t know who is. “So, um, how does this natural ability show itself?”

“I have to spend time with the person, get to know their personality a bit. Maybe uncover what their favorite food is or what kind of music they listen to, stuff like that,” he says, throwing another seductive grin at me.

We reach the Bath Shop and Sam stops to look through the crammed front window. The arrival of the work day has never felt less exciting. The prospect of sorting through hand creams when this Adonis of a man is working a mere block and a half from me is too awful to contemplate.

“Well, now I know why you smell so good. You work at a perfume shop.”