Ray spent the better part of Friday morning gazing up at the ass end of Mrs. Levonwith’s Buick, only partially daydreaming of her literal ass end. She appeared in good health and appropriately dressed for the late July heat when she dropped the LeSabre off yesterday afternoon. Her thin summer dress was no match for the sun, and from certain angles, it may as well not have been there at all.

While initially, his father and uncle thought Jean was up to her usual hijinks, it turned out her Buick’s suspension actually was shot. She pouted when hearing the price estimate but softened with the realization she’d see Ray two days in a row. The game of how many clever ways he could dodge Jean’s advances no longer needed to be played now that he was newly single. Yet, Mrs. Levonwith was a client, and boundaries would be maintained for the sake of professionalism. And future business. He was damn sure the exhaust was near the end of its lifecycle, but he had to admit the flirting was fun.

His father strode from the far side of the garage toward Jean’s car. His work boots squeaked over the insanely clean floors. His Uncle was obsessive, in the best way. The business end of the aging Buick blocked both their faces, but Ray would know his dad’s gait anywhere. The shop coveralls provided the Frye family with an exterior uniformity, but J.J. Frye could not hide his swagger.

“How’s it coming?” His dad paused at the rear tire. A red shop rag peeked from his hip pocket like a cartoon tongue.

“Slowly. Most of the bolts were seized.” Ray hadn’t even bothered with hand tools. He had gone straight for the impact wrench.

“They always are. Your flight’s at 7ish, right?”

“Yeah. Kurt and Alma are picking me up a little after five.”

“Go on home. I’ll finish this up.” His dad tipped his head toward Wabash Avenue.

“You sure? Mrs. Levonwith …”

“Jean will just have to settle for your old man. Go.”

“I could use the extra time. I have an errand to run and an epic shower to take. It’s hot today.” Ray set the wrench on the rolling tool cart, pulled his red rag from his back pocket, and wiped his hands. He inspected a busted knuckle, not remembering what he had busted it on.

“The radio said it’s supposed to be hot all weekend. Be smart with the alcohol. At least until after your set.”

Ray chuckled. “Good call. And will do.” He nodded at the fatherly advice.

“Knock ‘em dead, son. Your grandfather would be proud.”

With practiced precision and a throat clearing, his father’s handshake deftly transitioned into a shoulder bump, ending with some back slaps—an appropriately manly display of public affection. “Thanks, Dad.” While it wasn’t said, Ray interpreted these small gestures as his dad’s way of expressing his own pride. “Keep an eye on Jean. She’s trouble.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ve been handling Jean Levonwith since the LeSabre’s first oil change. She’s harmless.”

“Ma and Auntie Edith may not agree.”

“Don’t be fooled. Jean is an equal opportunity flirt. Now, go.” For a second time, Ray’s dad tipped his head toward Wabash Avenue as he picked up the impact wrench and settled in under the Buick.

“I’ll call you when I get home!” Ray hollered over his shoulder as he unzipped himself out of his coveralls. He slam-dunked them into the laundry bin with a flourish and a dorky crowd cheering noise. His dad pulled the trigger on the wrench twice in quick succession, responding with a zip, zip.

Ray detoured to Walgreens. He needed Band-Aids and Super Glue to address the busted knuckle, also a pack of gum for the flight. Batteries were also on the list. The Copper Tops. His DiscMan seemed to burn through all the cheapie brands, and he’d need the device powered longer than any activity his cousin and Alma attempted while they all shared one hotel room. Ray wasn’t sure what to expect with this whirlwind, potentially life-changing weekend. He bristled with nervous energy, constantly looking at his watch. He’d not begrudge the lovers if they also got swept up in the fervor. He picked up a sleep mask and earplugs, just in case.

Before hopping in the shower, he gave his condo a light cleaning—a lick and a promise, as his mother would say. He pitched the decaying food from his fridge, emptied all the trash cans, and washed the dishes. He tidied the living room and danced with the Swiffer sweeper, the greatest invention for single guys everywhere. While these pre-travel chores were a pain in the ass, he enjoyed returning to a clean house.

Toward the end of his shower routine, as he sang along to Morphine’s “French Fries with Pepper”, he stiffened, hearing the click of his front door closing. Someone was in his home. Ray hastily rinsed and shut off the water. The bathroom door crept open, and Andrea slinked in, closing it behind her. She leaned against the wood with her hands beneath her tush, sliding one leg up.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ray yanked his towel from the bar with a snap and stepped onto the mat, slowly drying himself, not really caring that he was butt ass naked. He quieted the CD player once he was no longer dripping.

“You won’t return my calls,” she said. “Why won’t you return my calls?”

“What’s there to say? Rather than talking to me about your money problems and us finding a solution, you sold my Grandpa Jacob’s Les Paul.” Ray took his growing agitation out on his hair. He was pretty sure he towel-dried it into a rat’s nest.

“What’s the big deal? You never play it. It’s been in the case under your bed for the whole time we’ve been together.”

“It’s got a bent shaft that needs repairing. And that doesn’t matter in the slightest. It wasn’t yours to do with as you please.” Ray wrapped the towel around his waist, his blood pressure rising. He’d been saving to have it fixed. Rescuing it from Near South Pawn derailed that goal.

Andrea pushed off the door and tipped her head. “I’m sorry, babe. I was desperate. Let me make it up to you.” She prowled forward with overly performative seduction, slid the left strap of her sundress off her shoulder, followed by the right. With a flick, the floral garment flowed from her body and pooled around her feet. She stepped out of the ring of fabric, now on his bathroom floor. Skin and bones in Oxblood Dr. Martens.

“Put your dress on, Andrea. I don’t have time for this.” Ray tried to side-step his nearly naked ex in the cramped space, but Andrea caused a collision. With catlike reflexes, she grabbed his towel, freeing it from his waist. Stepping forward, she pushed Ray to half-sit on the edge of the sink, shimmying herself between his knees.

“I didn’t think you cared about it.” She slid her hands over his shoulders and bit her bottom lip. “And I didn’t know it was broken.” She used the baby talk that often preceded something sexual.

“But you seemed to know it was valuable.”

Ray trained his gaze on Andrea’s eyes rather than her bare chest, clutching the rim of the sink to keep his hands from temptation. He was still pissed, but their chemistry could make his little brain talk louder than his big one. A breakup fuck might be enjoyable and provide an outlet for his mounting anger and bristling energy, but it wouldn’t change a god-damned thing, and it could make him late. His move off the sink forced her back. He picked up her dress and pushed it into her stomach. “Why didn’t you ask for help?”

“Would you have sold the guitar to do so?”

“Fuck no! I wouldn’t have needed to.” Ray continued getting ready, swiping deodorant over each pit before adding it to his Dopp kit.

“Excuse me?” Andrea’s face twisted. “You don’t have any money.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Your complaints about how little the gigs pay, for one. This tiny-ass condo, for two. The fact that we barely go out, for three. And the shop doesn’t …”

“Doesn’t what? Pay?” Ray untangled the rat’s nest of his own making, growing annoyed. Andrea’s scorn for Frye and Sons Automotive Repair was a point of contention in their relationship. Her first use of ‘your dad’s silly shop’ came about two months in. Andrea adored the idea of dating a rock ‘n’ roller, but a mechanic not so much. His nails were never clean enough, even when they were. The smell of solvents and oils never fully washed away. He identified people by their cars, not their names, and Andrea knew jack shit about vehicles. His collar was just too blue.

“Well … yeah. Kinda.” She tipped her ear to her shoulder before slipping her dress back on. She flipped the toilet lid down and sat. “I thought it was just you helping your dad out. Some obligation or something. Like you owed him.” She leaned her elbows on her knees. “Plus, you were always such a cheapskate.”

“Damn! That’s harsh.” Ray could be thrifty. He had to be. Tours, even small ones, needed capital. Same with expensive guitar repairs. He missed playing the Les Paul. “Did you ever consider that maybe it wasn’t me being cheap but your insatiable appetite for having more than you truly need?”

“Nope.” Andrea chirped, oblivious to the shopping addiction that landed her in this predicament to begin with. “I deserve it all.”

Ray masked his eye roll by bending to pick up the towel. He flicked the sides inward and tucked it over the bar. “And some other fella will have to be the one to give it to you.” He exited the bathroom to get dressed, cradling the packed Dopp kit like a football. Andrea followed.

“Where are you going?” She eyed the collection of bags at the foot of his bed.

Ray slid his toiletries into the duffel and closed it with a smooth and satisfying zip. He bustled around, putting clothes between himself and his ex. While strapping his aging TAG Heuer Formula 1 to his wrist, he noted it was 4:44. He closed his eyes and made a wish. Please, let Viceroy Brown catch a break. He collected the bags and set the duffel by the front door next to his guitar case.

“New York.”

“A gig?”

“Woodstock.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Ray moved to the kitchen cabinet with the over-the-counter meds, contemplated, and then plopped a bottle of ibuprofen and a roll of Tums into his backpack. He shoved the Walgreens stash into the largest compartment. He’d get organized on the drive to O’Hare.

Andrea followed him into the kitchen. “That’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you and I are no longer you and I. We had a good run, but we’re done.” Hmmm. That’d make a good lyric. He repeated it in his head a few times with a little riff, trying to make it stick.

“C’mon! You seriously can’t forgive me?”

She stepped into his personal space, looking up with doe eyes. When he didn’t move, she inched forward, letting her chest touch his—testing a boundary. While beautiful and sexy as hell, Andrea could be snobbish, irresponsible, and sometimes manipulative. And she seemed to have no remorse or shame for pawning his vintage guitar or the habit that led her to that drastic measure.

“It’s not only about forgiveness. And you know it.” Ray could probably forgive her if they were truly compatible. She got herself into some trouble and made a foolish decision. But he was always going to be a car guy. And a mechanic. And she was always going to hate that about him. It was amazing they lasted as long as they did. Ray ignored all the red flags until it was too late because their hot, yet shallow sex life was a skim coat over the deepening cracks. It wasn’t enough.

After a loose hug and a light peck on her cheek, Ray held out his hand. “I’d like my key, please.” When she didn’t move, he waggled his fingers.

She huffed but opened her purse, twisted the key off the crowded keyring, and placed it in Ray’s palm.

The doorbell rang and rang again in several quick dings as his cousin burst through the door. “Yo! Yo! Yo! You ready to do this, Cuz? Oh … Hey, there, Andy.”

“Hey, Kurt,” she said.

“Andrea was just leaving.” Ray ushered her past his cousin and out the door. Saved by the bell.

Andrea turned. “Break a leg, guys. I mean it.”

“Thanks.” Ray and Kurt answered in unison. Kurt was his jovial self—the human Ernie to his Bert in a Guns and Roses Use Your Illusion concert T-shirt. Ray was pensive, reminding himself not to overthink his nerves.

Ray added, “Goodbye, Andrea.”

“Goodbye, Ray.”

Ray tipped his head, watching her walk away—the cliché of it like the chorus of a country song. She disappeared into the stairwell, and Ray inwardly said a second farewell, knowing it was truly the end.

“I’m holding you to that goodbye,” Kurt said. “She was all wrong for you.”

Ray moved his mouth to speak, but Kurt held up a hand. “I get it, though. Little brain. Big brain.” Kurt picked up the equipment bag. “Now, c’mon. Let’s hit the road. Woodstock waits for no man.”