Under the Dusty Sky (Holloway Farms)

insulting myself.
    I can’t stop a laugh. I’ve never been checkmated before.
    “ As are you, Bentley I-don’t-know-your-middle-name McKinna. Well, I guess we have a car to fix, hey?”
    I push myself off the quad and fall in step with Ben as we make our way to my car behind the stable. Bentley looks at me a couple times then smiles down at his feet.
    “ It’s Blackmoore.”
    “ Huh?” I ask.
    “ My middle name. It’s Blackmoore. It’s my mom’s maiden name. My mother was pretentious. Is pretentious. She thinks she’s British Royalty or something.”
    I laugh then say, “Elvis.”
    It’s his turn to say, “Huh?”
    “ My mother was in love with Elvis. She named me after a house.”
    Ben throws his arm across my shoulders and laughs with me.
    “ See, I know you better already.”
    He winks at me, and I curse my heart for fluttering.
    ***
    I do not curse the fact that I get to work on a car with him as I watch him bent over the hood of my old two-door Chevy.
    “ So how do you know so much about cars?” I ask, trying to remember all the stuff he rambled off to me when he first lifted the hood. I lean against the car and put my foot on the bumper.
    “ My dad collected them. We have maybe fifteen of them still, and a buddy of mine likes to work on them so I let him.”
    “ Fifteen cars?” I’m momentarily astonished until I remember how many cars, trucks, tractors and farm machinery we have around here.
    “ Yeah, my family has money. It’s part of the reason my mother thinks she’s royalty.” Ben laughs and hands me a wrench without looking at me.
    “ My dad would kill me if I let anyone touch his tractors. How did you get your dad to let a buddy work on his cars?”
    Bentley looks at me sideways, still hunched over the engine. His gaze is distant while he thinks about something. Straightening up, he spins and leans against the car next to me.
    “ My dad died. Six years ago.”
    I lace my fingers together in my lap and shift.
    “ Oh, I’m sorry.”
    Bentley shrugs and wipes his hands on his torn jeans. “It was six years ago.”
    He’s back to his neutral gaze, and it pisses me off. How can he say something like that?
    “ My mom left me thirteen years ago, and I don’t even remember it. Still, I couldn’t just shrug about it like that.”
    Eyebrows low and lips pressed together, he shifts to face me again.
    “ I miss my dad, everyday, but he didn’t leave us. He was taken from us. Believe me, if you’d have seen him in those last few months you’d understand how I look at it.”
    I put my hands back in my lap.
    “ Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”
    Ben shrugs again and goes back to the engine. “It’s cool. I’d be pretty bitter if I were you, too. Don’t worry about it.”
    I let it go. We’re skirting too close to emotional connection territory. If he wants to know me better, fine, but I’m not going to fall in love with him or anything.
    “ So what’s this thing again?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
    “ A dipstick. To check the oil. Oil is very important, Gracie.” He’s smirking, and I punch his shoulder.
    “ I don’t care about any of it. The sooner you come to terms with that, the smoother this will go. Just tell me what I need to know so that I don’t kill it again.”
    “ Fine, but you should care more. This is a decent car, and if you take care of it, it could last damn near forever.”
    “ Nothing lasts forever.” It’s a reaction. I don’t mean to say it, but that filter thing that makes normal people stop talking doesn’t exist in me. I was born without it.
    “ You’re so much fun to be around, you know that? Your optimism is contagious.”
    His grin turns into a laugh, and I push his chest. Grabbing my wrists, he gets this goofy dramatic look and sinks to his knees, still holding my wrists.
    “ The world shall end in a reign of fire. Burning all we love to assimilated, indistinguishable ash. But love isn’t real, and the world is shit. So maybe we’d be better off.”
    His head hangs, and I can’t see his face, but I can hear the laughter in his mocking tone and his shoulders shake. My lips purse together, and I pull him back up into a standing position.
    “ You’re such a loser.”
    He catches my chin between his thumb and index finger and gently shakes my face like I’m a child.
    “ But I have fifteen cars. Most people are pretty good at ignoring my loser-ish behavior.” He’s smiling, but his eyes aren’t. It bugs me. I want to