“Of course not,” she says. “But you clearly don’t want me to sit with you.” Her wave takes in me and the stool I’m blocking.

“No. That’s not …” I trail off, a frustrated growl clawing at my chest. But letting the animalistic noise out would only make things worse.

“Just give me a minute to say my piece. I swear I’ll leave you alone after I’m done. You’ll never have to see me again.” She crosses her heart with a finger, as if making a solemn vow.

Zoey leaving is the worst outcome I can think of. I’d rather have her in this room, shouting at me.

“I’m dirty.” My oil-stained hands come to rest on my hips. “This whole shop is dirty. And you’re walking in here, wearing white, like some kind of perfect fever dream. I’m just trying to keep you from ruining your dress.”

Silence stretches between us as Zoey examines my face. She must pick up the sincerity because the upset fades from her gaze.

“Can I see?” she asks, reaching forward, her fingers wrapping around my wrists.

She raises them up, taking a close look at my filthy palms. The nails are crusted with grime, my skin appears dark and uneven under the coat of motor oil. Even now, I can see traces of the black rubbing off on her fingers.

Any second, Zoey will wrinkle her nose, loosen her grip, and ask where a sink with soap is.

At least, that’s what most people would do.

It’s my fault for forgetting that Zoey isn’t most people.

Before I can stop her, she presses both of my palms against her boobs.

“What are you doing?” I choke, snatching my hands back, even as they beg to stay where she put them.

Zoey glances down at her dress, a smile creeping over her lips as she eyes the black prints now marring the pristine white fabric. A snort escapes, and then the next moment, she’s doubled over in laughter.

The happy sound rings through the shop, bouncing off every surface.

I want to laugh with her. I want to moan at the loss of her perfect dress. I want to drag her into my arms and kiss her senseless.

Instead, I hold myself back because I’m still not sure where we stand. Clearly, Zoey isn’t terrified of me, which I take as a good sign. But that doesn’t tell me much. It’s completely possible she convinced herself that night was a dream or a fear-induced hallucination. If that’s the case, I’ll have to decide if the best option is to just let her continue living a normal life, oblivious to what my truth is.

Zoey calms down, shaking her head at me as she walks back to the bike I was working on. I follow, a step behind.