Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I take the gloves, then he taps the car, near the roof, showing me another scratch that I didn’t know was there.
I take that as an invitation to stay.
He buffs out the scratch on top of my roof that was from the tree branch I grazed once, and I sand the paint over the five little scratches from the Coke bottle Mars threw straight up in the air that accidentally landed on my hood. Macon starts replacing the two wheels, and I scan the car one last time for any remaining blemishes.
“High Enough” by Damn Yankees comes on, and I can’t stop smiling all of a sudden. I work a scratch a little more, lost in my thoughts.
“My dad used to listen to this music,” I say. “When I was little.”
He squats on the other side of the car, refastening the lug nuts. “He had an eighties Corvette he bought in college,” I go on, “and I wasn’t allowed to touch the car, but he bought me one of those motorized kid cars, and I would fix mine while he worked on his.” I still see everything in my head. Him in the driveway, my car parked behind his. “It was pink—mine, I mean—and I like pink, but there were like fifteen shades of pink on that car. It was hideous.” I laugh out loud, even as the tears well. “He’d have a beer, and I’d have a bottle of strawberry soda. Out in the driveway. Music cranked up. A light breeze.”
I swallow over the needles in my throat. It was perfect.
I haven’t seen him in months.
“He was different then,” I say, my voice softening. “I guess he forgot the things he loved.”
His hair bands, his Corvette, his dreams …
“I guess I’ll forget the things I love, too.” I go back to sanding. “Life takes you over like that. You lose yourself. Who you were when you were five was the real you. Before everything started to kill you.”
My father couldn’t have been obsessed with his stock portfolio when he was a kid. He wanted other things.
I see Clay’s mom out in the world now. Buying a seaside cottage. Learning to garden. Wearing jeans and eating ice cream on the sidewalk.
Regressing, my mom says. A midlife crisis, she says.
But it’s not. Clay’s mom isn’t having a midlife crisis. She’s remembering herself.
I look at Macon through the windows, seeing him just sit there, his body still.
I don’t want to sell any of me to Jerome Watson. I don’t want to lose time.
I walk over, and Macon sees me coming and starts on the tire again. He’s attached the others, now removing the lug nuts from the fourth. The one Aracely stuck her knife in. He cranks the wrench, loosening the first bolt.
“May I try?” I ask. “To learn? In case I break down on the road by myself sometime?”
He opens his mouth, inhaling something that looks like it’s going to be a sigh, and rises without sparing me a glance.
I lean down, grabbing the wrench in both fists, and pull, the bolt spinning easily. I twist and twist until it pops off, and then I fasten the tool to another bolt. Gripping it with both hands, I pull again, but this time it doesn’t budge. I yank, putting everything I have into it. He must’ve loosened the last one. I jerk it again and again, grunting, but then I stop and look up. “Oh, you know what? We should make a TikTok.”
But he blurts out, “Get up.”
I do and watch as he puts one of his suede work boots on the long bar of the wrench and stands up on it, showing me how to use my weight to loosen it.
The bar budges, and he steps off.
“Cool.” I beam up at him. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t smile back. He walks off, and I crouch down again, twisting the wrench until the nut falls off.
I look over my shoulder. “And thanks for the tires.”
He opens the bag of food I left hours ago, sniffs it, and winces, dropping it back down on the tool bench.
I don’t know why he doesn’t just tell her to make him a steak, or some stew, or even an omelet. Something light if he’s tired of burgers. All it takes is a text.
Moving in front of the tire, I kneel down and reach behind it, securing it in both hands. Shifting back and forth, I wiggle it off the axle, but Macon is there before it drops onto my feet.
He tries to take it, but I stop him.
“Just take the other side.”
He tightens his lips and grabs the other end, walking backward quickly, and I hurry to keep hold.
“Why didn’t you go to the club like everyone else?” I ask as we set the tire on top of the other three. “Do you wanna go?”