I head up the drive, surprised to see Mack’s truck in front of the massive garage out back, the doors open. Even though I had left a note on the counter, I didn’t expect him to be home so soon, not after the later evenings he pulled the last two nights. Fontana is this Sunday, and I know he wants to be ready. He wants to win.
As I approach the open door, the sounds of Johnny Cash filter outside. It’s not too loud, but loud enough to be heard over whatever he’s tinkering with under the hood of a truck.
And let’s talk about the truck.
The truck.
“Is that your old one?” I ask, taking in the 1986 Chevy three-quarter ton square body with zero rust around the fender wells.
Mack pops his head out, an odd combination of emotions on his face. I can see his eagerness, most likely because his son is home, but there’s also something else there. Frustration. Anger, maybe? He pushes it aside though and gives me a small grin. “Hey.”
“We’re just getting back from a walk,” I tell him, though it’s probably not necessary. He knew where we went.
His eyes are full of love as he gazes down at Oliver, the little guy’s arms stretched over his head as he sleeps in the stroller. “Was he good?”
“He was out about fifteen minutes into it,” I say, glancing around the inside of the massive shop area. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in here, the first time Mack has utilized the space since my arrival. “This is great,” I add, taking in the old Mustang in the very back and the truck directly in front of me.
Mack does the same as he wipes his hands on a shop towel. “Thanks. This is my thinking space. I figured since Oliver was with you, I could come in here and tinker for a bit,” he says, diverting his eyes to the engine of the old truck.
Knowing the baby is fine where he is, I step around the stroller and run my hand over the side of the truck. “Is this…was this one yours? The old one?” I ask, my voice full of emotion.
“Uhh, no, that one was probably scrapped years ago. This is one I found online about a year ago. I was craving a new project to jump into and found this one on Craigslist. An older gentleman bought it brand-new in eighty-six. He passed away, and his widow was looking to get it out of the garage.”
I head for the car in back, the late sixties model Ford Mustang. “And this one?”
Mack chuckles. “That’s actually Fish’s baby. It was his car when he turned sixteen, but it’s never really run right. When his marriage to Ava fell apart, he brought it here to start working on it. His new place is pretty small and the garage even tinier. No room for both cars.”
“What happened with his wife?” I ask, taking in the primer and the car parts all over the bench beside the car.
He shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Not really my story to tell, Lean,” he says as his eyes lock on mine, “but life is too short to be anything but happy.”
I nod, my throat thick and lumpy. Just then, Oliver starts to stir and releases a banshee war cry. “Someone’s probably ready for his dinner,” I announce.
“I’ll go with you,” Mack says, heading over to the stroller.
We head into the house and proceed through our nightly routine, but I can tell something is on his mind. He’s one-hundred-percent vested in Oliver, but there’s something in the lines around his eyes and the tightness in his smile. Call it intuition, but I know he’s got something on his mind. I’m just not sure if I should let him work through it himself or if he’s looking for an ear to bend.
After Oliver’s bath, I get his little footie pajamas on him. He smells so clean, his skin so soft, I just want to snuggle him close and drink him in. My eyes fill with tears as his wet fuzzy head nestles in the crook of my neck. I’m going to miss this part. The wide-eyed look he gives me when I’m dressing him. The way his arms and legs kick with excitement as I tell him about some silly story from my childhood. The feel of his body relaxing completely in my arms as he drifts off to sleep.
I pass him off to Mack, who settles into the rocker to give him his bedtime bottle. Mack softly talks to him, telling him about some sponsorship thing he had to do today, mumbling about how much he hates shooting commercials. Even though I’m not directly in the room, I can picture Oliver’s dark eyes drinking him in, hanging on his every word until he reaches the point where his eyes grow too heavy to keep open.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mack carefully get up from the rocker, setting the empty bottle down beside the chair. I close the dishwasher and press the power button as the boys appear in the doorway. “He’s out.”
A smile crests my lips as I gingerly walk over to where they stand. This part has become routine too. Oliver is positioned against Mack’s chest, his little mouth open in slumber. His pudgy little cheek is pressed against his dad’s chest and his arms curled up under his body.
I move in, inhaling the best scent in the world. A combination of Oliver and Mack. My hand grasps Mack’s upper arm for stability (or just because I want to touch him) as I
