"What's so funny?" she asks.
"The way you're standing." I motion to her. "You look like you're posing for something."
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "Would you just open the door for me, please?"
"I thought you didn't need help."
She narrows her eyes at me.
I give her a big wide grin. Then I open the garage door with one hand. "Was that it?"
"Yes," she mutters, as she glances to the side.
"Just call if you need me for anything else. I have many different skills." I said it flirtatiously just to see how she'd react. I'm not trying to go out with this girl, but I'm finding it fun to rile her up.
She's staring at me, like she's trying to figure out a clever comeback. When she can't come up with one, she limps into the garage to her car, a compact, navy-blue two-door that looks to be around ten years old.
I follow her and open her door. "You sure you should be driving?"
"Why wouldn't I drive?" she asks as she gets in the car.
"You can't even walk on your right leg so it doesn't seem like you should be using it to drive a car."
"It's my foot that's controlling the pedals, not my knee. And my foot is fine." She yanks the door closed, but her window is down so I set my hands there and lean down to her level.
"Isn't your leg going to hurt standing on it all day?"
She sighs, her hand on the ignition. "There's a stool in the kitchen that I can sit on while I work." She starts the car. "I really need to go."
I step back and exit the garage, waiting in the driveway as she pulls out. "I'll get the door," I say, when I see her face fall, realizing she has to get out and close it.
"Thank you," she says, sounding grateful that she didn't have to ask this time.
"No problem." I wave her on. "Have a good day at work. See you tonight."
I'm not sure if she heard me tell her I'd see her tonight, but from the questioning look on her face, I'm guessing she did. But she kept backing out and now she's headed down the road.
I smile. She's a definite firecracker. Sparking when you least expect it. And I'm never sure if it's going to be a small spark or a big one. I wonder why she gets so angry. It's not really anger, at least not the type I'm used to. Marissa used to get angry a lot toward the end of our relationship, which I thought was just caused by the stress of planning a wedding. But now I think it was really her way of trying to get me to break up with her so she wouldn't have to do it herself.
Marissa's anger was laced with resentment, jealousy, and even a little hate, but I didn't realize that until after we'd broken up. That's when I started to see things clearly and understood why Marissa and I would never work. She resented me for always being honest with her, because although she said she liked my honesty when we met, it turns out she prefers to be told lies that will make her feel better about herself. She was jealous of my job, because it took me away from her. She expected all my time to be spent with her, but running a business isn't a nine-to-five job and when I explained that to her, she wouldn't accept it. And the hate she expressed? I don't know where that came from. I was always good to her. Always treated her well. Loved her. But it wasn't enough.
Callie's anger is less like anger and more like annoyance. Or frustration. And maybe some sadness. I can't figure her out. She's kind of odd, not in a bad way, but in a way that makes me want to know more about her. So far, I find her to be a walking contradiction. She seems closed off, but at the same time seems desperate to connect to someone. She keeps saying she doesn't need help, but there's this look in her eyes that says that she does. Like she wants to ask for help, but can't. And then there's that anger. She was trying to direct it at me, but it seemed more like it was directed at herself.
As I'm reaching up to close her garage, I notice some boxes stacked up in the corner. They're labeled with a black marker. I walk over and see a box labeled 'miscellaneous donations' and one below it that reads 'dad's old junk' written in kid handwriting with a smiley face next to it. Callie's parents must've been cleaning out their house. I need to do the same, although I doubt there's much of Gramp's stuff that's worth donating. I'll probably just rent a dumpster and toss everything.
I glance behind the boxes and see a tiny red tricycle. I used to have one just like it, except this one has race car stickers all over it. Callie must have a little brother, or maybe he's not so little anymore if they've hidden his tricycle behind a pile of boxes.
As I leave the garage, I wonder why Callie didn't tell me much about her family. She didn't even mention having a brother. And when I asked where her parents are, she never answered my question.
It's just another odd thing about this girl.
Chapter Three