The Getaway Driver

My name is Cody. I’ve been a mechanic at a shop in Austin, Texas, for about twelve years now. I’m better with an engine than I am with people. My hands are always stained with grease, and I’ve got a permanent scar on my forearm from a radiator pipe that burst back in ‘19. I don't mind the work. It’s honest, and it keeps my mind off the things that didn’t pan out for me.

The thing that didn’t pan out the most was Sarah. She’s been my best friend since we were in high school. She was always the one who dreamed of a life that didn’t involve humidity and oil changes. She wanted that classic, old-school glamour. Specifically, she wanted her grandfather’s 1965 Mustang—a car that had been sitting in a barn, rotting away into a rusted heap of metal and regret.

"Cody, if I could just drive away in that car on my wedding day, I’d feel like the luckiest girl in the world," she told me about a year ago. She wasn't even engaged then, but she had that look in her eye.

I’m a fool, I guess. I spent the next fourteen months of my life in my garage after my shift ended at the shop. I didn't tell her what I was doing. I told her I’d found a buyer for the scrap metal in the barn. Instead, I hauled that rusted shell to my place and started the long walk.

I spent nearly $25,000 on parts alone. I had to source an original engine block, rebuild the transmission from scratch, and spend weeks on the bodywork because the quarter panels were mostly holes. I did the upholstery myself, stitching the red leather until my fingers were raw. I didn't go out. I didn't buy anything for myself. I worked until 2:00 AM almost every night, fueled by the thought of the look on her face when I finally handed her the keys.

Six months ago, she met Tyler. He’s a "consultant" from up north. He wears those slim-fit suits and has a smile that looks like it was practiced in a mirror. Three months later, they were engaged.

"The wedding is in October, Cody! You’re coming, right? I need my best friend there," she said, showing me the ring. It was a nice diamond. It probably cost less than the chrome bumpers I’d just ordered for her car.

I finished the Mustang two days before the wedding. It was perfect. The paint was a deep, glossy Raven Black that looked like glass. The engine hummed so smooth you could balance a nickel on the hood while it was idling. It was the best work I’d ever done.

I drove it over to her house on the morning of the rehearsal. I was wearing my clean work shirt, feeling like maybe, just maybe, when she saw what I’d done, she’d see me, too.

She came out of the house and screamed. She cried. She hugged me and told me I was the most amazing person she’d ever known. "Cody, I can't believe it! It’s perfect! How did you... how did you do all this?"

"I just wanted you to have that dream, Sarah," I said.

Then Tyler walked out. He looked at the car, then he looked at me. He didn't see the thousands of hours of labor. He didn't see the debt I’d taken on to finish the interior. He just saw a cool toy.

"Wow, man. Incredible job," Tyler said, slapping the roof of the car—hard enough to make me wince. "This is going to look amazing in the photos. I was worried we’d have to rent some boring limo, but this? This is a statement. Thanks for getting it ready for us, buddy."

Sarah looked at him, then at me. "Isn't it great, Ty? Cody fixed it up for the wedding!"

"Yeah, perfect timing," Tyler said, already reaching for the keys in my hand. "I’ll take it for a spin to make sure I’m comfortable with the clutch before the big exit tomorrow. You’re a lifesaver, Cody."

I stood in her driveway and watched them drive away. Tyler was revving the engine—doing it wrong, too, putting stress on the new gaskets. Sarah was laughing, her hair blowing in the wind, leaning over to kiss him.

The next day, I sat in the fourth row at the church. I watched them say their vows. At the end of the ceremony, they walked out to the curb where the Mustang was waiting. I’d spent that morning polishing it one last time. They hopped in, and as Tyler sped off, the tires chirped—a sound that told me he was grinding the gears I’d spent weeks perfecting.

I didn't stay for the reception. I went back to my empty garage. It felt huge without the car in it. I looked at the empty spot on the floor where the oil had dripped during the rebuild. I’m still paying off the loan I took out for the paint job. I’ve got about three years of payments left.

I saw a video she posted today. It was a slow-motion shot of them driving away from the church, the "Just Married" sign hanging off the bumper I’d bolted on myself. The caption was: "The perfect getaway in the perfect car. Thank you, Tyler, for making all my dreams come true."

She forgot. Or maybe she just didn't want to remember that Tyler didn't turn a single wrench. He just hopped in and drove it away. I’m back at the shop today, changing the oil on a minivan. My hands are greasy again. I’m just the mechanic. I fix things so other people can go where they’re going. I just wish, just once, I was the one behind the wheel.