But mostly I fix broken things at this job. It reminds me every time I’m here that if you really try, you can fix broken people, too.

It’s not usually as simple with people. Can’t swap out old parts for new ones. Can’t replace dirty oil with clean. But you can take a good look at the parts that aren’t working and shine them up until they do.

Mostly, anyway. At least I fucking hope you can. I don’t want to be broken anymore.

“Are you going to be at the bar tonight?” Seth, another one of the guys at the shop, nudges me on his way past, a rag in his hands and his hat pushed back on his head. “I was thinking about trying that place out. I figure it must be good.”

“It’s just a bar. Nothing fancy.”

“Yeah, but you always talk about it, and you’re picky.”

“Me?” I point at my chest. “You think I’m picky?”

“I think you know what you like. And you like that bar. Mind if I come along, or is it supposed to be a secret?”

“You can go wherever you want.” I feel myself getting defensive, like he’s trying to pry into my life, but he’s right. I’ve mentioned my bar quite a few times at work. If I didn’t want anyone to know I went there, I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I don’t have to do that anymore. That was a school rule, not a real-life rule. I can say whatever the hell I want to whoever I want. There’s only one thing I can’t say, and it has nothing to do with the bar. “But I’d like to see you over there sometime. You like burgers?”

He laughs. “Who the hell doesn’t like burgers?”

I shrug, “You never know.”

“Yeah. I can get behind a good burger, especially when they have decent beers on tap.”

“It’s a bar, so they’ve got lots of shit on tap.”

“Good.” He knocks his hand against my shoulder. “I’ll look for you. What time do you think you’ll be there?”

I tell him what time I’m planning to head out and give him an estimate on when I’ll be at my barstool. “I’m usually there at the same time most nights, so I’m easy to find.”

“I know.” My stomach drops. For a few seconds, it doesn’t come back up. He knows I’m easy to find? What the hell else does this guy know about me? What does he think he knows? “It’s okay, man. Don’t look so freaked out. You live next door. Everybody knows that.”

“Right.”

“Right,” he repeats. “You live next door, and you’ve never even asked us over for a game of cards.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to play cards.”