I pull a stool up to the workbench, open the parts catalog to the brake section, and check the notebook where I left off before we drove up to the city. New brake lines, master cylinder, wheel cylinders all around. Suspension needs refreshing too. Those rubber bushings are shot after fifty years. The whole project isbroken down in sections, just like I plan maintenance rotations at the shop. Every job prioritized, with rough costs next to it.
I stand there staring at the catalog, the notebook, and the car under the drop cloth. But I’m not seeing any of it.
My mind keeps drifting back to Lance’s hand on mine on our trip home, and the goodbye kiss. I shake my head hard, pick up the pencil, and force myself back to reality.
Brake lines, master cylinder. Start there, yes.
An hour into it, I hear a car pull up outside with a familiar rattle on the idle that I’ve been meaning to look at for four days now.
I check my watch. It’s past nine. I set the pencil down and head to the front door.
Lance is standing on my porch with greasy paper bags—tacos from the all-night place and Chinese takeout from the main drag. He must’ve just done a short shift that ended at nine, which means he drove here directly from the hospital instead of going home first.
He lifts the bag. “You eat?”
I let him in.
He drops it on the table and I grab plates. We sit across from each other like always and the conversation comes easily. I start noticing things I never paid much attention to before. How he eats slowly. The small sound he makes when something tastes good. How he wraps both hands around his cup once it cools down.
After, he wanders into the garage, drawn to whatever I’m working on. He crouches down at the front wheel well, looking at the rust I’ve got masked off and prepped for treatment.
“How long until it runs?” he asks.
“Brakes and suspension are next. Maybe another month before I can take it out, depending on the shop schedule.”
“Nice. Promise me I’ll be your first passenger once done,” he says, moving to the workbench and picking up my notebook. He flips through it slowly, not skimming. He’s actually reading it.
He looks up, waiting for me to respond. I nod, planning on doing that anyway without being told.
“This is systems thinking,” he says. “You’ve got load tolerances and failure points all mapped out. The whole thing reads like a pro job.”
“How’d you even know what any of this means?” I ask.
Lance being smart isn’t exactly news. He calls out answers before the question’s even finished, probably impatient with how slow the rest of us think. Notices what he shouldn’t, connects what he shouldn’t be able to connect. I’ve watched it a hundred times. It still fucking gets me.
He shrugs. “I’ve got eidetic memory, nothing special. I see it once and it tends to stick. I’ve read some engineering books in the library back in high school.”
He sets the notebook down and meets my eyes. “Did you ever think about going that route? Formally, I mean, like mechanical engineering.”
“I thought about studying, yeah. And a lot of other things before the Navy.”
“Like what?”
I lean against the workbench. This isn’t a conversation I have often. Most people never think to ask. “I wanted to design things. Engines, mostly. I figured if I understood them from the inside, from actually working on them, I would know how to build better ones.” I glance at the Torino. “The Navy was supposed to be the practical foundation. Get the hands-on hours, save some money, then figure out the rest.”
“You’ve got a real gift for this, G. But your dad got sick.”
“Yes. Shop needed someone.” I shrug. Not because it doesn’t matter, but because it’s settled ground now. “It worked out.”
Lance falls into thought, clearly working it through. “You could still do it, you know.”
“I’m thirty-one with a shop to run.”
“I know a guy who went back to school at forty-four for his nursing degree.” He picks the notebook up again, turns to the suspension page. “I’m just saying the option doesn’t expire.”
I watch him study the page and I think about how he showed up on my porch tonight.
I think about driving him to the hospital in the morning since his shift starts at seven. His car needs the idle checked before I’ll feel good about him taking it on the freeway. I told him that twenty minutes ago, and he didn’t argue. He just said okay and carried on reading the notebook.
