When Hans and I walked outside, there were only two cars still parked on Steve’s quiet, unassuming suburban street—my black ’93 Mustang hatchback and a black BMW 3 Series on the opposite side of the road.
“Is that your car?” I asked, trying to hide the shock in my voice as I gestured toward the Beemer. I was a muscle-car enthusiast through and through, but I had to admit, there was something sexy about that little black import.
“Yeah. My parents got a new car, so they gave me their old one. But it’s a stick, so I can’t drive it for shit.” Hans shrugged as we made our way down the steep driveway.
“I can teach you!” I blurted out.
Hans gave me the side-eye.
“For real!” I pointed enthusiastically at the little ’Stang that could. “My car is a stick! I even won some races at a little track not far from here! Oh my God, we could go there to practice. It’s the perfect place!”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt the stinging slap of guilt. After what Harley had done to me, I didn’t owe him shit, but for some reason, the idea of taking another man to our special place just felt wrong.
Fuck that, my inner bitch piped up. Harley only took you there to teach you how to race on his track so that you could win him money. Not only should y’all go, but you should both take a piss on the finish line before you leave.
The bitch had a point.
Hans smiled at my passionate outburst and pulled his car keys out of his pocket. “Oh, I know how to drive a stick. I just suck at it. I’m too ADD for that shit.” Hitting the unlock button, Hans tossed his keys to me and headed toward the passenger side of his own car.
He’s letting me drive?!
“You want me to drive?”
“Only if you wanna live.” Hans gave me a lopsided grin. Then, he opened his door and ducked inside.
When I pulled open the driver’s-side door, the interior of the car was all shiny black leather and shinier brown walnut, but the floors were all crushed Newport cartons and empty bottles of Mountain Dew. I smiled to myself. I loved how unconcerned Hans was with the bullshit of life. He didn’t apologize for his messy car because it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t afraid of losing his man card for wearing nail polish or letting a girl drive his car, probably because he was six-foot-fuck tall and had a five o’clock shadow at eleven o’clock in the morning.
And he also doesn’t seem to give a shit that he has a girlfriend, my guilt chimed in.
Fuck you, guilt. Nobody asked you.
I, unlike Hans, had all kinds of hang-ups, including an acute fear of asking him where he wanted to go for breakfast. Knight and Harley had each taken me to Waffle House for our first date, and I’d barely survived those two relationships. If Hans said he wanted to go to motherfucking Waffle House, I might have to drive us off the nearest bridge just to save myself the drama.
“Are you cool with IHOP?” I asked as my black pleather-covered ass landed in the black leather driver’s seat. My feet couldn’t even reach the pedals.
“Fuck yeah, I love that place,” Hans said as I fumbled around, looking for the seat-adjustment controls. “When you order coffee, they bring you the whole fucking pot.”
“I don’t know how you drink that shit,” I teased, my fingers finally finding the right button. Before I could press it, I heard a familiar whirring sound coming from Hans’s side of the car.
I looked over and snorted. Hans’s knees were practically smooshed between his chest and the glove compartment as his seat moved backward in slow motion. I giggled and hit my button, too. My seat moved forward at the same pace that Hans’s was moving backward, our smiling eyes locking somewhere in the middle.
I’d never driven a German luxury car before, but as soon as I pulled out of the neighborhood, I wasn’t sure how I’d ever go back. Hans watched me with rapt attention from the passenger seat as I gasped at the acceleration and squealed over the handling and gushed about how smooth the ride was. I did miss the deafening roar you get from an American big block, but I’d get over it.
As I pulled onto the main highway that led into town, Hans rolled his window halfway down and lit a cigarette. Gesturing toward me with his open pack, he asked, “Want one?”
“Hell yeah,” I said, taking the green-and-white Newport box from him. I lit up at the next red light. The cool, minty tingle in the back of my throat surprised me. I hadn’t had a menthol since I was a kid when my best friend, Juliet, and I used to smoke what was left of the cigarette butts in her mom’s ashtrays.
It tasted like sneaky, bad fun.
“Can I open the sunroof?” I asked, my finger poised over the button just above the rearview mirror.
As soon as Hans nodded, I had that bitch open wide, the blazing July sun filling the car and burning my skin in the best way possible. I tilted my head back and inhaled the hot, humid air. After spending almost three months in near isolation, driving a luxury car with a Newport between my fingers, a gorgeous, tattooed cuddle machine in the passenger seat, and the sun on my face felt like absolute heaven.
My reverie was quickly shattered, however, when the light turned green, and I stomped on the gas. The wind from the now-open sunroof snatched the ashes clean off the end of my cigarette and sent them swirling around inside the car.
“Shit!” I spat, swatting at the gray flecks in the air—as if that would help, as if I could simply pop them like bubbles.
I waited for Hans to yell at me about his precious imported leather, but he didn’t. In fact, he did the last thing I’d expected. Hans Oppenheimer rolled his window the rest of the way down, held up the end of his cigarette, and watched as his ashes took flight too, flitting between us in the sunlight like a handful of silver glitter.
“Did you see that?” Hans asked once the ashes had vanished, eyes wide.
“Yeah,” I said. The word came out all breathy, as if I’d just witnessed some supernatural phenomenon. “It looked like—”
“A snow globe,” Hans and I said in unison.
“Yes!” I cried. “Oh my God! Right? We just created the world’s most expensive snow globe!”
Hans chuckled and rolled his window halfway up again. “I’m gonna call the Guinness Book of World Records people and report that shit. Maybe we can get on The Tonight Show.”
“Good plan. Hey, maybe Phantom Limb can be the musical guest!”
Hans gave me an adorable little smile and opened his mouth to reply when a robotic tune interrupted his train of thought. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a little black cell phone. I immediately pressed two buttons on my door to roll the windows up as Hans hit the button to close the sunroof.
“What’s up, man?” Hans smiled as he greeted the caller. “No shit? Right now? I have BB with me.” Hans glanced over at me, his mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “Yeah, the girl from last night. No. Fuck you.” Hans looked at me again as his smirk erupted into a full-blown grin. “Right on, man. We’ll be there. Thanks!”
Hans hung up and turned his whole body toward me. I could feel the excitement radiating off him.
“Change of plans. We’re going downtown.”