The Book of Broken Hearts by Sarah Ockler

practice that eyebrow thing in your bedroom mirror, don’t you?”
    That rascally eyebrow dropped, and I swear his face turned pink, but with the stubble it was hard to tell.
    “That mean you’re stalking me? You been at my house? Maybe you snuck in my room?” He took a step closer, invading my space with his fabric softener scent, and for a second I imagined his room, how it must’ve looked when he woke up this morning . . . gray T-shirt tossed over the edge of the bed. Wild hair rumpled and crazy. His morning face, that deep sleep-scratchy voice, my fingers tracing the scars on his shoulder, his abdomen . . .
    “Hey,” he whispered. “You don’t have to sneak around. I’d let you in.”
    I almost choked. Was that a popcorn kernel? Those things could be pretty dangerous.
    “Does that stuff actually work on other girls?” I asked. “I bet you practice all your favorite lines in the mirror, huh?”
    Emilio shook his head. “Don’t need a mirror. I know how I look.”
    “Yeah, like an idiot.” I called for Pancake and walked outside, Emilio trailing behind. Fresh air, that’s what the situation called for. Nothing a little sunshine couldn’t cure.
    “Sure you don’t want a ride?” Emilio jerked his thumb toward the motorcycle.
    “Positive.”
    “Your pops was this trailblazer, right? And you won’t ride anything that ain’t got four wheels. You really his kid?”
    I laughed, but the mention of Papi and his old life clawed my insides. I wish he’d wear his Arañas jacket to the doctor appointments instead of stuffy corporate shirts. He looked pretty hard core in the jacket, even all these years later. Maybe then the old A-heimer’s would get the memo and run the other way, like, Oh, we’d better not mess with this muchacho!
    “I roll with Pancake,” I said, “and he doesn’t do motorcycles. Right, boy?” Pancake totally agreed, evidenced by all the tongue lolling and tail wagging as I got him situated in the truck’s backseat.
    Emilio and I climbed in front. As soon as he clicked hisseat belt, he noticed the shifter on the floor between us. “You drive stick?”
    I pressed down the clutch, started her up, and revved the engine. Like, three times.
    “ Ay, Dios mío , this girl.” Emilio rolled his eyes and I shrugged, like, Hells yeah! Motorcycle restoration, driving standard . . . nothing this girl can’t rock!
    I caught my reflection in the rearview as I backed out of the driveway.
    Pretty ridiculous.

    The lift was a massive orange ramp with an adjustable platform, presumably for the motorcycle, and through the window I watched Emilio and Samuel haul it to the truck. Emilio caught me scoping him out, but instead of making a big show of it, he smiled, soft and sweet. I was the first to look away.
    Moments later the big softy reappeared at the service counter where I’d been updating Duke on the restore progress. “All set,” Emilio said, and after we’d said good-bye to Duke, he led me and Pancake out the front door, his hand warm on my lower back.
    The truck bumped down Fifth Street and past Old Town limits, but Emilio hadn’t spoken. He was fidgety, tapping his fingers on his thigh, bouncing his knee. He rolled the window down and back up again. Twice.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    “Good.” Tap-tap-tap.
    “You sure?”
    “Yep.” Tap-tap.
    “You know you’re acting weird, right?”
    Emilio looked out the window, fingers tracing the row of ponderosa pine that lined the road. “I’m not weird. I just . . . I dunnohajurivesterd.”
    “What?”
    He groaned and turned toward me, jaw clenched. “I don’t. Know how. To drive. A standard.”

    “Give it more gas. Now slowly release the clutch and . . . nope. Back to clutch. Clutch. Clutch!”
    We bucked into a stall—the fiftieth? The hundredth? I’d lost count after twenty. Even Pancake looked a little green under his golden-blond coat. I tried not to think about the damage the lift was probably causing the pickup