Angel Of Love

Fix my car, break me again.

ADALIA’S POINT OF VIEW

“Hello, miss, what can I help you with?” A tiny guy, not taller than 5 ft 6, and not heavier than 110 pounds, with brown curls that fall over his brown eyes, asks me with a smile on his freckled face.

“I have a flat tire, and some warning light popped up on the dashboard. I have to drive to Massachusetts, and I don’t want to--” I don’t get to say what my problem is because the guy’s eyes went wide, and interrupted me with a squeal and a high-pitched tone of voice.

“You’re Adalia Jones! The first self-made billionaire woman, with the apps and s**t!” He exclaims enthusiastically, and on a normal basis I wouldn’t mind talking to him, but I’m in freaking New Jersey, and every minute spent here means more chances to see them, and I already had more delays than I wished for.

“Yes, I am. Now please, I’m in a hurry.” I plead, trying to remain polite and not blow up because the poor guy did nothing to me, but as I said... gotta get out of here.

“Yes, sorry. Bring the car in, and we’ll take care of it.” He talks in a professional tone, but still keeps a huge smile on his face.

He’s nice. I will give him a big tip.

I bring the car in, and I can’t help but chuckle when I see him opening my door.

“You didn’t have to do that. I’m not royalty, I actually grew up in the ghettos around here.” I explain, and a jolt of pain strikes my chest as I remember... other things, and he looks at me with wide eyes, shocked.

“But the media... they said that you--” I shake my head and interrupt him.

“The media assumes, and I don’t bother to tell them otherwise because they’ll have it their way anyway,” I explain again, not really knowing which story she heard, but none is true, so it doesn’t really matter.

“I don’t want to offend you or your shop, but do your workers know how to fix Rolls-Royce cars?” I ask, hoping that he’ll not get offended, but the truth is that Rolls-Royce’s are not so easy to fix.

I do regret taking this car and not one that has no sensors, but I like to take this one when I drive for hours because it’s very comfortable.

“Yes. I do. We have a guy that can fix the first car ever made, and the last model of any car you want. He’s really amazing. He doesn’t have a diploma, but he’s the best mechanic I’ve ever seen.” He says, calming me.

It’s not that I care about the car, but if they don’t fix it, I will have to go to some dealership, and either rent one or buy one, and that takes time, and it would mean that I would have to drive around town, and I would rather not.

“Ok,” I decided to trust him with my mental health.

“YOO! TRISTAN, I HAVE A ROLLS-ROYCE FOR YOU!” At first, my brain didn’t quite get the name he called because I was too amused by how he changed his way of talking from professional to YOO, but when it did, I think it short-circuited, and the heart which was shattered and barely beating, started f*****g racing at an abnormally high speed.

I'm cursing, so that says something.

But it can’t be him. I mean, there are a lot of other Tristan’s in the world. Besides, he never worked as a mechanic, so there’s no need to panic.

No panic.

At all.

I’m calm.

Very calm.

I follow the little guy’s gaze, and I see a big, filled with tattoos arm coming from under a car, and I realize that, for the first time since the guy called that name, I get to breathe.

Tristan has no tattoos, he never said he wanted them, so I’m safe.

That was a very close one!

But I hope that this one breath will keep me alive for a little longer than a breath normally would, because when the guy slid from under the car on one of those things that resemble a skateboard, -I think it’s called a creeper seat-, I saw that unique light brown hair with dirty blond highlights, tied up in a man bun, just like he used to wear it.

But maybe... he has a scrub... a sexy one and Tristan was always shaved...

Nope! There is no maybe! It’s him.

IT’S f*****g HIM!

HIM!

TRISTAN!

FUCK, f**k, f**k!

I’M GONNA DIE!

I’M DYING!

I try to turn and get inside my car, but I’m literally unable to move, talk, or breathe for that matter.

He’s taller than when I saw him last, bigger and more muscular, maybe 6 ft 5 or more, but I have grown too, I'm 5 ft 11, so maybe he won't recognize me. I changed too, my hair is longer, the curls are better maintained, I'm wearing a navy blue pantsuit, he never saw me dressed like that, so... maybe I stand a chance.

And he... he’s wearing a black jumpsuit that makes him look... well... it makes me swallow hard.

Do not swallow hard! You don’t want him! I don’t want him!

He’s looking down at the rag that he uses to clean his oily hands, and again, I want to go before he sees me, I really do, I swear I do, but I literally can’t.

“What’s the problem with it?” The deep and baritone voice sounds like a smooth song sung by some supernatural being, and just like the first time I heard it, and as every goddamn time, it sends shivers down my spine and makes my organs flip and jump all over the place, giving me the feeling that I’ll throw up every single one of my useless organs, faint, then die.

Tristan... it’s... Tristan...

“A flat tire and some warning light popped up.” The guy explains as Tristan places the rag under his mechanic's belt, then looks up, glancing at the car, at the guy... and then... our eyes locked.

He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his eyes went wide and his mouth fell open, and I don’t know how I look, but I’m really not feeling ok.

“B.b.bambi?” He stutters as he looks at me as if I’m a ghost, and I want to curse him, tell him not to call me that, but I also want to do and say things that I swore that I’ll never even think about, and for once, I’m grateful that I can’t talk or move because I really don’t know what I would do.

My jaw is clenched, it actually hurts, so to say a word would be impossible. My breathing stopped a while ago, and my racing heart became violent, trying to get out of my chest, hurting my ribcage, and every beat echoes through every inch of my pained and weak body, giving me the feeling that I’ll literally crumble and fall to the ground.

“Tristan, are you ok?” The guy asks in a worried voice, and if he weren’t next to me I don’t think that I would have heard him because my heart is beating way too loudly in my ears.

“Y.you... here...” He says some other incoherent words but without taking his eyes off of me, and I force myself to get out of his baby blue eye’s trance, look away and find the strength to go.

“I... sorry, but... I don’t need... I’ll go.” I blabber, trying not to sound and look just like I did. A teenage girl with speech impediments.

“Why? He can fix it, I promise.” The guy tries to convince me, and I want to tell him that Tristan can only break things, but I don’t because I don’t trust my voice, I don’t trust myself to be around him.

“No,” I reply shortly, afraid that if I say more words they will have nothing to do with my car, and before I turn, I look at Tristan one more time, who’s now fisting his jumpsuit with one hand as if he’s trying to reach inside his chest, and the other is around his throat while gasping for air.

“Oh, s**t!” The little guy exclaims in a worried voice as Tristan struggles to breathe, but it looks like his airways are blocked.

I felt my anger dissipate as worry took over, and my first instinct was to go to him, help him, and I almost did.

Almost.

“JADA, COME HERE! TRISTAN HAS ANOTHER EPISODE!” That was what stopped me.

The pain that I felt when I heard Jada's name can’t be put into words. My eyes haven’t stung like this since the day I caught them. My insides, which were already broken, feel like they are put in a blender, which destroys me all over again, this time even worse, if that’s even possible.

I see Jada, or a blurred image of her, fact that tells me that I’m about to cry, and I bite my cheek hard in order not to, and focus on the pain and the metallic taste of blood that floods my mouth, then close my eyes shut for a second to push the tears away, and without wanting, my eyes land on her again, examining her, trying to see what she has that I don’t, trying to figure out why Tristan chose her.

We look different, but she’s also black, just a darker shade than me, her hair is still braided, she never wore it loose, she was a tomboy, and seeing that she works as a mechanic, she still is. Maybe that was it, the fact that she's more of a tomboy... Oh, God... I gotta stop.

“What happened?” She asks as she helps Tristan sit on the ground, and the need to go and never look back is bigger than it ever was because the pain is more than my body can handle, but again, I can’t, I’m way too numb and way too broken to move a muscle.

“B.b.ba..m..bi...” Tristan barely stutters, and I see Jada shaking her head.

“It’s gonna be ok, you’ll see. We’ll talk about it later. Now calm down, and try to breathe.” She says in a somehow sympathetic and worried voice, and I want to curse her, oh, God, I want to do so many things...

“N.no... Ba...m...bi” Tristan repeats through very hard attempts of taking a breath and shakily takes the hand that up until now fisted his jumpsuit, and pointed it at me.

Jada followed his movement, and when our eyes locked, the b***h smiled.

“Lia!” Her voice is cheerful, her smile gets bigger, and I look at her confused, trying to figure out why she's smiling, and I realize that she’s probably smiling because I got to see that they are still together and I’m still an outsider.

“f**k you,” I curse in a low voice because I can’t talk really well, or loud, or clearly, and her smile turned into a disappointed frown, then, she shrugs her shoulders.

“Understandable, but still not nice.” She states with a sigh, and I open my mouth to tell her everything I wanted to tell her then, but I was too hurt, too busy to beg, but now I mostly want to curse at her, but my voice is really lost, my body is numb due to the trillions of feelings that are assaulting me, the excruciating pain that doesn’t allow me to do anything but stay frozen and pray that I won’t die, even though death sounds pretty f*****g good right now.

The sound of Tristan struggling to breathe takes both of us from our silent conversation, and as I see Tristan’s lips turning blue, and tears running down his cheeks, I almost cave and go to him, but what he said that night came back to me and stopped even my heart.

“Oh, s**t! T., man, breath...” Jada tries to soothe Tristan... my Tristan... not mine... but... mine. He was mine and she...

Oh, s**t!

Don’t cry, Adalia! Don’t you f*****g cry! You are a strong woman now, you don't cry in front of anyone!

“Don’t pass out on me again, man... come on... breathe... please!” Jada pleads, but Tristan’s eyes slowly close as he loses consciousness.

“Help me take him to the back room.” She says with a sigh as she looks at me, and I bet that my teary eyes went comically wide.

“I’m not touching him... or you... no...” I barely talk, but I’m doing my best to show the disgust in my voice and on my face, and Jada scoffs.

“I can’t move him alone, Lia, he’s damn big--” Hearing the pet name that she gave to me and forbidding even Tristan to use it, detonated the grenade of anger inside of me.

“DON’T YOU f*****g CALL ME LIKE THAT!” My voice echoes the shop as I finally snap, surprising even me, and causing the little guy to jump startled.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re angry, I get it, but come and help me, then you can punch me.” Her voice, even if it’s more mature, it still sounds like it used to, cheery, and I hate it, and I hate the smile on her face, I f*****g hate everything that has to do with them... I hate them...

“f**k you and f**k him! f**k off!” I yell and turn around to go, but her voice, which for once sounds serious, stops me.

“We need to talk. Now, come and help me, then you can punch me, then we’ll talk.”

“I have nothing to talk to you about. I tried once, and you didn’t even acknowledge me, so now, as I said before, f**k you, and f**k off!” I snap again, and she sighs heavily in defeat.

“Corry, come and help me. As for you...” She says, pointing at me.

“Don’t go. We really need to talk.” She demands, and I try to fight the side of me that wants to stay, and listen to my brain and go the f**k away until I’m still breathing.

“Help you, how?” The little guy, Corry, asks, and for good reasons, because he couldn’t support ten percent of Tristan’s big body, then looks at me with pleading eyes.

“No. I’m not touching them.” I state before he has the chance to even ask, and he sighs heavily.

“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning. But please, for now we're the only ones here. James will come in an hour or so, and you look, and I guess you also are, stronger than me. You look fit.” Corry begs with a blush, and my eyes land on Tristan, who’s passed out on the ground with wet trails of tears on his face.

“There is no dry-cleaning in this world that could save this pantsuit if I touch them!” I snap and curse my legs for going toward them.

Turn around, Adalia! You don’t owe them anything! You also begged, and they... Just turn the f**k around, and go far away from here!

But what does Jada want to talk to me? Apologize? Maybe this is what Addis was talking about. Maybe I will get my closure.

I curse myself, but even if I almost throw up, disgusted by my weakness, my brain lost the battle, and another organ, which I officially declare as being useless and stupid, won, and before I know it, I’m crouched next to Tristan.

Good God... he’s... God... no! Just help him and go.

He helped me also, even though I don’t know why, but he did, so I’ll help him as well. Not because I... there’s no reason except for that one!!!

“Well... let’s take him there, and you can stare at him for as long as you want once we lay him on the sofa.” Jada’s voice brings me back from... Oh, God, I should stop thinking!

“I was not staring!“ She chuckles in disbelief, making it very f*****g hard for me not to punch her, but I remind myself that I have to keep my cool, not show them that I’m still hurting, even though I don’t know how good my body masks my pain, and I have no control over it, I never have when I’m in Tristan’s...

Just stop!

“Do you want my help or not???” I snap, and she purses her full lips as a sign that she won’t say anything else, then, with very shaky hands, I reach for Tristan’s hand, which is as warm as I remember, but more calloused, and way bigger than mine, giving me that feeling... those feelings...

No! No! No!

I’m ok, I hate him, I despise him, I don’t even stand him...

I fight the stupid urge that I won’t even talk about and which I hardly succeed to push at the back of my head, then wrap one arm around his waist as I put his arm around my neck so I can keep him up, and Jada does the same.

The mix of feelings that assaults me is like a Molotov cocktail, bombarding me with sensations that I never thought I’ll ever feel, and they are so many, so bad, and so... good.

I can smell his scent, it’s the same, even though the oil that covers his jumpsuit masks it a little, but not in a bad way... it’s even more...

Damn me! Damn him!

STOP, ADALIA!