I pull into his parking lot and kill the engine. Lance gets out and pops the tailgate to get his bag from the bed.
He swings it over his shoulder and faces me. The afternoon light is flat and gray. He stands there like he’s trying to decide what to say versus what to do.
“Thanks for the drive,” he says.
“No problem.”
His grip fidgets on the strap. He adjusts it twice, like he’s buying himself time. His eyes flick to mine, then away again.
Finally, he nods once, like that should be it, and starts to go.
“Forgot something?” I ask.
He stops mid-step but doesn’t turn right away. He exhales like he’s annoyed at himself.
“Nothing,” he says. He hesitates half a moment longer, then starts to move again. “Later.”
I grab his arm.
It’s not really a decision. My hand hooks him and turns him back in a single motion, then slides to the back of his neck. I pull him in the rest of the way and meet his mouth with mine. His bag hits the pavement.
He opens for me without hesitation, like there was never going to be another answer.
I don’t rush it. I take my time kissing him, because I’ve been sitting on it all day and finally stopped pretending I wasn’t.
He tilts in and follows me, his hand snapping up to my jacket, gripping at the collar like he needs something tangible to hold onto. He’s not resisting or pulling away, but he’s leaning into it right there.
After a while, I let go.
When he pulls back, his eyes are a little unfocused, mouth slightly red, breath coming slower now. He lets go of my jacket and drags his palm down it once, like he’s resetting himself.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Was that for me or for you?”
“Both,” I grunt.
He nods once, chin dipping, the small accept-it nod. After a beat, he steps back, picks up his bag, and walks toward his building without looking back.
21
George
Five days since the trip to San Francisco, I’m still not entirely where I’m supposed to be.
The shop keeps me busy enough that I don’t have to think about it during the day. There’s a transmission rebuild on a ‘04 Silverado that’s been waiting on a part since last week, two oil changes, a brake job, and a set of tires that came in unannounced at 4:30 because the customer spotted a nail in the tread on his lunch break and panicked. I manage the floor more than I work it, directing the guys, signing off on estimates, and handling the paperwork that piles up the second I take a day off.
Carter is less talkative than usual. He’s been that way since I got back, handling his half of the shop with the same competence he always does but without the running commentary he usually keeps up through the day. When I ask about the Silverado, he gives me a curt reply and goes back to work. When a customer comes in with a complaint about a repair from two weeks ago, he handles it himself without pulling me in, which he’d normally do just to have a second voice in the room. It’s possible he’s just focused, or that something’s going on at home that he hasn’t mentioned. I notice it but I don’t push. Crowding a reserved man has never gotten anyone anywhere.
By seven, the shop is locked and I’m home, still in my work clothes. I smell like oil and that sharp metallic tang that clings to you after hours around engines, even if you never touched a single part.
I don’t go inside right away. I pull the garage door up and stand in the opening for a minute, letting the evening air waft through. The neighborhood is winding down. The light is flat yellow from a single overhead bulb, and the Gran Torino sits in the corner under the drop cloth exactly where I left it Sunday night.
It’s a 1972 Ford Gran Torino fastback. Original dark green paint under two decades of grime when I bought it two years ago. Rust in the wheel wells, but good bones. Nothing structural. My dad had a picture of one on his wall when I was a kid, cut from a car magazine and taped above the workbench in his shop. He never owned one. He always said he would when the shop was doing well enough. The shop stopped doing well, he got sick and then the ‘when’ never happened.
This one is going to run right when I’m done with it.
I’ve got the engine pulled and rebuilt, heads cleaned, fresh gaskets throughout. The carb is rebuilt and sitting on the shelf in its box. The body still needs serious work, rust repair, and a proper respray, but the mechanical side is coming together.
I head inside, shower off the day’s grease, and change into black sweats before coming back out. The shop smell always clings to my work clothes and hair. Never been able to sit with it like some guys. My old man was the same way. No matter how long the day ran, he cleaned up before dinner. Old habit.
