Chapter 5: The Comparison
The morning light through the garage’s high windows was thick with floating dust. It fell in bars across the hood of the Bronco, which was now up on the lift, its undercarriage exposed like a patient on an operating table. Marc stood underneath it, a droplight in one hand, tracing a brake line with his greasy thumb. His body ached in a pleasant, unfamiliar way—a deep, muscular satisfaction that had nothing to do with engines.
The side door creaked open, and the familiar, shuffling gait of his Uncle Gus announced itself before the man did. The radio, which had been playing a low hum of static, was suddenly switched to an old rock station. A tinny guitar riff filled the space.
“You’re here early,” Gus grumbled, dropping a battered thermos on the workbench. He was a wiry man in his sixties, with a face like a leather glove and eyes that missed nothing.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Marc said, not looking out from under the chassis. It was partly true. He’d lain awake for hours after Sydney left, her scent on his sheets, the memory of her skin under his hands playing on a loop. She’d slipped out before dawn, a soft kiss on his shoulder, a whispered “I’ll call you” that hung in the dark room. He’d pretended to be asleep.
Gus snorted, pouring a cup of coffee that smelled like tar. “Or you never went to bed.” He took a loud sip. “That actress’s truck still here. She pick it up last night?”
Marc’s hand tightened on the droplight. “She did.”
“Hmm.” Gus leaned against the bench, watching him. “Took her time about it, too. Saw the light on upstairs past midnight.” He didn’t say it like an accusation, just a statement of fact. A Gus fact.
Marc emerged from under the Bronco, wiping his hands on a rag that was already black. He kept his face neutral. “We had spaghetti. Things got… delayed.”
“Spaghetti.” Gus’s smirk was a fleeting crack in his weathered face. “Your famous jar-and-garlic special. A real candlelit affair.” He took another sip, his eyes scanning the garage—the pristine tools laid out, the floor swept cleaner than usual. “Place looks different. You clean?”
“Just straightened up.”
“Right.” Gus set his mug down with a click. He walked over to the Bronco, running a critical hand along its flank. “She’s a beauty. Solid frame. Good bones.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the driver’s side door handle, then to the floor beneath it. He bent down, stiffly, and plucked something from the concrete.
He held it up. A single, small, faux-diamond earring. It caught the dusty light and threw a cheap sparkle.
Marc stared at it. It was hers. It must have fallen out last night, in the frenzy of their arrival, or their departure. A tiny, glittering piece of evidence.
Gus rolled the earring between his thumb and forefinger. “Your actress,” he said, his tone shifting from teasing to something more contemplative. “She’s got grease under her nails now. I saw her yesterday, handing you a socket wrench like she’d done it before. Got a look in her eyes. A focus. Fire.” He met Marc’s gaze, his own old and knowing. “Reminds me of Lena, before…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
The name hung in the oily air, a ghost suddenly made present. Marc felt a cold jolt, like he’d touched a live wire. The wrench he’d been holding slipped from his fingers. It hit the concrete with a loud, shocking clatter that echoed off the metal shelves. The sound seemed to vibrate in his teeth.
Gus watched him, unfazed. He placed the earring carefully on the workbench. “Before she got sick,” Gus finished, softly. “That’s all I meant. Lena had that same… capacity. For getting her hands dirty in a real way.” He picked up his thermos cap, fiddling with it. “Not saying they’re the same person. They’re not. Lena was… well. Lena.”
Marc bent to retrieve the wrench, his movements stiff. His heart was pounding a ragged rhythm against his ribs. He hadn’t expected the comparison. He hadn’t let himself think it. Lena was a sealed room in his mind. Sydney was a sudden, brilliant skylight, blasting it open and illuminating dust he’d let settle for years.
“She’s not Lena,” Marc said, his voice harder than he intended.
“Never said she was,” Gus replied evenly. He nodded toward the earring. “Lena wouldn’t have worn something that flashy. She was more of a studs woman.” He sighed, a long, wheezing exhale. “Look, kid. I’m not giving you grief. It’s been a long time. You’re allowed a life. Even a complicated one.”
Marc straightened up, the wrench cold in his hand. He looked at the earring, this shiny, out-of-place thing on his greasy bench. It was a fragment of her world, a world of red carpets and magazines, now resting beside a can of penetrating oil. The two realities seemed impossible to reconcile.
“It’s just…” Marc started, then stopped. How to explain the feeling? The sheer, disorienting scale of her life versus his? The fear that he was just a novelty, a gritty distraction before she returned to her real, glittering existence? “What the hell does she want here, Gus? In this?” He gestured around the garage, at the grime and the graft.
Gus considered him for a long moment. He walked over to the Bronco and patted its tire. “Maybe she wants this. A project. Something real you build with your hands. Something you can point to and say, ‘I fixed that.’” He looked back at Marc. “In her world, everything is make-believe. Scripted. Maybe she’s tired of pretending.”
“Or maybe she’s just playing a part,” Marc muttered, the doubt sour in his mouth.
“Could be,” Gus shrugged, infuriatingly calm. “But that’s a risk, isn’t it? The truck is real. The grease is real.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Marc’s chest. “You are real. That’s either what she wants, or it’s what’ll scare her off. Either way, you’re just standing here holding a wrench and worrying about it. She’s the one who lost the earring.”
The logic was unbearably simple. Marc looked at the sparkling stud. She had been here. She had been with him. She had left a piece of herself behind.
The phone in his pocket buzzed. He fished it out—a text message.
Forgot an earring. A cheap one. But it’s my lucky cheap one. Can you hold onto it for me?
Followed by another, a second later.
Also. Last night wasn’t pretend.
He read the words twice. The noise of the city, the rumble of a bus passing outside, Gus’s quiet whistling of the radio tune—it all faded into a dull background hum. He felt a warmth spread through his chest, dispelling the chill that Lena’s name had brought.
He typed back, his thumbs clumsy.
Found it. It’s safe.
He hesitated, then added.
I know.
Gus watched him, a faint smile touching his lips. “Truck’s almost done,” he said, changing the subject with a gruff kindness. “Needs the brake lines bled. You want me to finish up?”
Marc slid the phone back into his pocket. He picked up the earring, holding the small, cool bit of plastic and paste between his fingers. It was the least valuable thing in the room, and somehow the most significant.
“No,” he said, walking back to the lift. He placed the earring on the dashboard of the Bronco, where it winked up from the cracked vinyl. “I’ll do it. It’s my job.”
He grabbed a wrench, the metal solid and familiar in his palm, and got back to work.
He grabbed a wrench, the metal solid and familiar in his palm, and got back to work. The earring on the dashboard watched him like a tiny, unblinking eye. He bled the brake lines with a methodical, practiced rhythm, the hydraulic pump hissing and the fluid bleeding from clear to amber.
The systematic work calmed the whirl in his head. By the time he lowered the Bronco, its tires kissing the concrete with a soft sigh, the garage was filled with the warm, buttery light of late afternoon. He cleaned his hands three times, the grit stubborn under his nails, a permanent tattoo of his trade.
Thursday arrived on the back of two ordinary days. Marc found himself listening for the specific sound of her engine—a healthy, vintage grumble that stood out from the city’s white noise. He’d just finished wrestling a catalytic converter from a Jetta when he heard it. The familiar growl pulled up outside, and the garage door rattled open.
Sydney ducked under the door before it was fully raised. She was dressed in faded jeans with a genuine tear at the knee and an old denim shirt of his she’d apparently borrowed, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair was tied back in a simple knot, a few blonde strands escaping to frame her face.
“Delivery for the mechanic,” she said, holding up a white paper bag. The rich, salty scent of freshly fried potatoes cut through the ambient oil. “I figured you’d forget to eat.”
“You figured right.” He wiped his hands, leaving darker streaks on the already-gray rag.
She placed the bag on the cleanest corner of the workbench and immediately turned to the Bronco. She ran her hand along the fender, a proprietary gesture. “You finished it.”
“Just about. Needs a test drive to be sure.” He watched her, the way her eyes scanned the work he’d done. “Earring’s on the dash.”
She smiled, but didn’t retrieve it yet. Instead, she picked up a clipboard where he kept his work orders. “So, what’s next? Who’s the victim?” She flipped through the pages.
“Red Accord out back. Oil change, tire rotation, basic stuff.” He came to stand beside her, pointing at the listed items. Her shoulder brushed his arm.
“I can handle an oil change,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “You said the filter’s a pain on those. I want to see.”
He didn’t argue. He showed her the car, the specific socket size for the filter housing, the particular angle needed to avoid dumping oil everywhere. She listened, nodded, and grabbed the tools herself. He watched for a moment as she positioned the drain pan and slid underneath the car on the creeper, her sneakers poking out.
He turned to his own task, the rhythmic zip-zip of her ratchet mixing with the city sounds drifting in. A comfortable silence settled, broken only by the clink of tools and the distant thump of bass from a passing car. It was, he realized, the most normal he’d felt in weeks.
After a while, he heard the creeper wheels roll and the solid thunk of the new filter being tightened. She slid out, a smudge of new oil on her cheekbone, her borrowed shirt now dusted with garage floor grit. She stood, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, and looked across the hood of the Accord directly at him.
Her smile wasn’t for cameras. It was wide and unguarded, crinkling the corners of her eyes, lit from within by a pure, unadulterated satisfaction. It was the biggest, most beautiful smile he had seen in years. It wasn’t pretty; it was real, a sunrise in the middle of his grimy, fluorescent-lit day. It was something genuine and fierce in her eyes, the same focus Gus had seen, now mixed with a simple, earned joy.
The breath caught in his chest. He felt, for a second, like he was seeing her without any filter at all.
“Did I do it right?” she asked, her voice pulling him back.
“You got the smudge to prove it,” he said, his own voice rough. He stepped closer, reached out, and thumbed the oil smear from her cheek. His touch lingered. “Perfect.”
The word hung between them, charged with more than mechanical praise. The air in the garage seemed to thicken, warm and still. She leaned into his hand for a fraction of a second, her eyes holding his. Then, with a slow blink, she broke the spell, turning back to the bench.
“Good.” She picked up a french fry from the now-greasy bag and took a bite. “So, about that test drive. Passenger seat’s mine.”
He nodded, the momentum of the day suddenly tilting forward, hurtling toward the open road. “Let me get the keys.”
The Bronco’s engine turned over with a loyal, throaty rumble that vibrated through the thin rubber of the steering wheel. Marc eased it out of the garage bay and into the restless flow of late afternoon traffic. Beside him, Sydney rolled her window down and let the city air, thick with exhaust and distant food truck aromas, whip through her hair.
She didn’t speak at first, just watched the streets unspool, her hand resting on the doorframe, fingers tapping to some silent rhythm. He drove without a destination, threading through backstreets and industrial lanes he knew by feel. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was dense with the echo of the garage, her smile, the shared french fry.
“You know,” she said, her voice cutting through the engine’s hum, “in my normal day, this would be the part where my publicist texts me a reminder to smile for the curb-side photographers.” She gestured out at a grimy brick wall streaked with graffiti. “It’s nice having no one to perform for.”
“Just me,” Marc said, glancing at her.
“Just you,” she echoed, and her tone softened it into a favor.
He pushed the Bronco onto a winding access road that led up toward the old reservoir, a place with a view of the city’s backside. The asphalt was cracked and patched, a perfect test for the suspension he’d rebuilt. The truck absorbed every bump with a solid, reassuring thunk. He took a corner a little fast, the tires gripping true, and a laugh escaped her—a bright, unfettered sound that filled the cab.
“Feels solid,” she said, bracing a hand on the dashboard. “Better than before.”
“It is better.” He allowed himself a flicker of pride, the professional kind he could own. “Rebuilt the front end. Tightened everything up.”
They reached the overlook, a cracked concrete slab littered with bottle caps and cigarette butts. The city sprawled below them in a hazy tapestry of brick, glass, and moving light. He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet was vast, filled only by the distant whine of a siren and the wind whistling through the Bronco’s mirrors.
She unbuckled and got out, walking to the edge. He followed, leaning against the warm hood. For a few minutes, they just looked. The sun was a faded orange coin dipping behind a water tower, painting the undersides of the clouds in bruised purples and pinks.
“It’s ugly up here,” she said, not turning around. “And perfect.”
Marc scuffed his boot on the gravel. The question that had been gnawing at him since Gus had held up that cheap earring found its way out. It came bluntly, stripped of grace. “Why this, Sydney?”
She turned, her face half in shadow. “Why the truck?”
“No.” He shook his head, looking down at his grease-ingrained knuckles. “Why me? I’m just a mechanic. You could have anyone polished up in a suit. People who know which fork to use.” He gestured vaguely back toward the gleaming skyline. “Your world’s up there. Mine’s back there, in the grease.”
She studied him, her expression unreadable. Then she walked back and hoisted herself onto the hood beside him, the metal groaning softly. She didn’t touch him, just sat close enough that he could smell the faint detergent on his own borrowed shirt, mixed with the scent of her skin.
“Polished men are exhausting,” she said, her voice flat. “They say what they think you want to hear. They curate every word, every gesture. It’s like talking to a very handsome mirror.” She picked at a frayed thread on her jeans. “You’re nothing like a mirror.”
She looked at him directly, her blue eyes frank in the fading light. “I see your honesty first. It’s like... a straight line. You don’t know how to be anything else. When you look at me, you see me, not a photo op. When you talk, you say the thing. It’s unnerving. It’s the most refreshing thing I’ve ever experienced.”
She leaned back on her palms, tilting her face to the darkening sky. “And the ‘just a mechanic’ thing? Please. You build things. You fix things. Your hands solve actual problems.” She reached over and took one of his hands, turning it over, tracing a callus with her thumb. The touch was electric. “I wouldn’t want some polished guy. I like ‘em sturdy. Blue collar. Real.”
Her words dismantled the doubt brick by brick. They weren’t flattery; they were observation, delivered with the same directness she claimed to value. The last of the sunset caught in her hair, turning it to a halo of molten copper. The wind carried the city’s cacophony up to them, a distant, rumbling orchestra.
His phone buzzed violently in his pocket, shattering the moment. He ignored it. It buzzed again, insistent. And again. A call, not a text.
Sydney’s smile faltered, a professional mask slipping into place for a second before she shook it off. “You should get that. Might be Gus. Or an emergency tow.”
He pulled the phone out, an unknown number flashing on the screen. He answered, his voice rough. “Yeah?”
A frantic, polished voice spilled out, tinny and loud enough for Sydney to hear. “Marc? Oh, thank God. It’s Chloe, Sydney’s assistant. Is she with you? She’s not answering her phone. There’s been a change—the midnight flight to LA is moved up. Her fitting is tomorrow at eight AM, and the stylist is having a complete meltdown. She needs to be on the red-eye. Now.”
Marc held the phone, watching Sydney’s face. Her eyes closed slowly. The woman from the overlook was gone, replaced by someone else, someone with schedules and meltdowns and red-eyes.
“She’s here,” Marc said, his voice devoid of inflection.
“Perfect! Can you put her on? And can you get her to the airport? The car service is totally screwed.”
He handed the phone to Sydney. She took it, her fingers brushing his, and walked a few paces away. Her posture changed, shoulders squaring, voice shifting into something efficient and calm. “Chloe, breathe. Tell me from the top.”
Marc listened to her side of the conversation, the words “contract,” “stylist,” and “non-negotiable” floating back to him on the cool breeze. He looked from her, back to the city, then down at his own hands—sturdy, blue collar, real. The hood of the Bronco had lost its warmth.
She ended the call and walked back, handing him the phone. Her expression was a mix of apology and grim resolve. “I’m so sorry. That’s… my other life.”
“The red-eye,” he stated.
She nodded. “I have to go.” A silence stretched, heavy with the unspoken. She touched his arm. “This wasn’t pretend.”
“I know,” he said, repeating his text from days before. It felt smaller now.
“The Bronco…” she started.
“I’ll keep it safe. It’s your ride.” He tried for a smile, but it felt thin. “Come back for it.”
“I will.” The promise hung between them, fragile as the twilight.
He drove her back to his apartment so she could grab her bag. The drive was quiet, the earlier ease replaced by a stiff, waiting tension. Upstairs, she changed out of his denim shirt, folding it neatly on his bed. She put her lucky earring back in. The transformation was subtle but complete.
At the curb, an obnoxiously black town car idled, its driver staring straight ahead. Chloe, a young woman with a severe bun and a tablet clenched to her chest, practically vibrated with anxiety on the sidewalk.
“Marc, this is Chloe. Chloe, Marc,” Sydney said, the introduction utilitarian.
Chloe’s eyes flickered over him, a quick, professional assessment that catalogued his jeans, his worn t-shirt, his hands. She offered a tight, meaningless smile. “Thank you so much for your help.” Her attention snapped back to Sydney. “We really, really have to go. Traffic is a nightmare.”
Sydney turned to him. There were no paparazzi here, just Mrs. Gabletti from 2B walking her shih tzu. The moment called for something, but the town car’s open door was a yawning maw sucking away the possibility.
He just nodded. “Safe flight.”
She leaned in, her kiss landing on his cheek, quick and close to his lips but not on them. It was a kiss for an audience, even if the only audience was Chloe. “I’ll call you,” she whispered, and then she was gone, sliding into the dark leather interior.
The door thudded shut with a final, airtight sound. The town car pulled into the traffic and was swallowed by it. Marc stood on the curb, the smell of her perfume and car exhaust lingering in the air. Across the street, Mrs. Gabletti gave him a sympathetic little wave before tugging her dog inside.
He turned and walked back into his building, the hollow rumble of the city feeling louder than before. Upstairs in his apartment, the silence was absolute. Her absence was a physical weight. On his bed, his denim shirt was perfectly folded.
On his nightstand, his phone lit up with a new text.
It was a picture. A selfie, taken from the back seat of the town car. Sydney’s face was illuminated by passing streetlights, her expression tired but her eyes intent on the camera. In the background, out the window, the blurred lights of the city streaked by.
The caption read: Already miss the view.
He stared at it, at the reflection of the phone’s screen in his own window, now just showing his darkened room and his own solitary silhouette. He typed back, the letters sharp and clear in the quiet.
The view misses you too.