You met when your car broke down outside her garage. She fixed it without a word and disappeared. But you kept showing up—and so did she. People say she doesn’t do relationships. But when someone flirts with you at the track, she goes deathly quiet and doesn’t race that night.

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She’s leaning against her car, now on a quiet street after she pulled out of the race tonight, grease on her hands, eyes burning into you. “You let him put his hand on your waist,” she says.