Theo runs the truck back and forth between the salt shaker and his orange juice for the rest of breakfast. When I say it's time to go he puts it in his pocket and then stands there with his hand over the pocket, just resting, making sure it's still real.
I think about it on the walk back. A banged-up old truck, left at the counter. I think about the large quiet man I keep almost running into on Main Street, who always seems to be coming from somewhere reasonable and going somewhere reasonable.
I should just say thank you. The normal thing to do.
I spend the rest of the afternoon deciding to do that and coming up with reasons not to and being annoyed at myself about it. It's the most mental energy I've spent on anything in a week that wasn't survival-related, which is either healthy or a problem.
He's at the diner counter when we come in the next morning.
Theo spots him first, which tracks. "The tall man," he announces to the entire diner, and waves like they're old friends separated by years and circumstance.
Ronan looks over. Lifts his chin at Theo. Then at me.
Theo is already out of the booth.
“Theo.”
He ignores me. He's across the diner and climbing onto the stool next to Ronan, truck in hand, completely at home in a way that I, a thirty-year-old adult, am not.
"I have a truck," Theo tells him.
"Nice!" Ronan doesn’t need that much enthusiasm at seven in the morning, but it seems genuine.
"It has wheels."
"Yeah."
"Good wheels?"
Ronan looks at the wheels. "Good wheels."
Theo is fully satisfied. He makes the truck go across the counter and Ronan moves his coffee mug without being asked, without looking up, just clears the runway. I walk over and join them on Theo's other side, and I'm not entirely sure when I decided to do that either.
We end up in a fairly serious conversation about whether a bird could drive a truck, whether the truck would need to be bird-sized or whether the bird would just be a small driver in a regular cab. Ronan thinks the bird would want a regular truck. Theo thinks it should be bird-sized so there's room in the back for worms. I stay out of it.
Eventually, Theo gets bored and slides off the stool and wanders back to our usual booth. I should follow him and instead I'm just sitting here.
Ronan turns his mug in his hands. "How long are you staying?" he asks to breath the sudden silence that’s settled over us.
"Not sure yet."
He nods, just that, and looks at his coffee a moment. "Town's good in summer," he says, like he's offering something without making it a thing.
"So I should stay through August?"
"Up to you."
Outside the window, Main Street is going about its morning — two guys outside the hardware store, a woman with a dog, the mountains being beautiful in the background. I try not to focus on Ronan, his size, how handsome he is, even with the gruff look he wears.
"The truck," I say. "Thank you."
He picks up his mug. "Don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure."
I look over at Theo in the booth, running his truck in circles around the syrup, and I think about a man who takes up a lot of space and somehow still leaves room.
Then I take my coffee and go back to my kid.
