by Lacey Black
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 lean in and brush my lips against Oliver’s cheek. “Good night, sweet boy,” I whisper, taking in another long whiff of baby shampoo.
Mack just stands there, our eyes meeting like two magnets, the pull drawing me in. I almost go up on my tiptoes. Almost make a move. Almost throw caution to the wind and kiss him. I want to so badly, but I don’t. Something’s still holding me back, keeping me from taking a step toward him. I’m certain he’d welcome me, my kiss. I’ve known him long enough to be able to read his desire, his want. It’s been there several times, each time more magnetic than the last.
But I already know what that one thing is. The drawback.
I’m leaving.
End of story.
I’m not sure my heart can take it when I fall in love with him all over again, only to have the same ending to our story.
That’s why I pull back. That’s why I break eye contact and smile down at the little boy in his arms, placing a second kiss on his face. The kiss meant for his dad.
I miss the heat of his arm beneath my palm the second he pulls away and heads upstairs. I miss the look in his eyes, the one filled with gratitude and appreciation. I miss the way my body responds whenever he’s near. I ignore all of that and finish cleaning the kitchen. I put all of my focus on scrubbing the counter and stovetop. I make sure the sink is food-free, so I’m not cleaning dried crusty food off the white porcelain tomorrow morning. I put all of my muscle into drying the pan I just hand-washed. I give the kitchen all of my attention, ignoring the pull that’s beckoning me to where Mack is.
Stupid magnetic hearts.
I’m lost in the silence of the room, making sure everything that’ll hold still is scrubbed down, and don’t hear him enter the kitchen. I don’t hear it, but I definitely feel it. When our eyes meet, that electrical pull is back. I’m the one who has to look away again, to break the connection. When I do, I find the baby monitor in his hand.
“I was going to go back out and work in the garage,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I thought maybe you’d like to come out with me.” I sense the unspoken words instantly. Like you used to. Like I used to when we were together, and he’d work on his race car in the shop at the track. I’d sit on a stool and watch, occasionally handing him a tool.
Tossing the dishcloth in the sink, I wipe my hands on my jean shorts and follow him out the back door. We move in silence through the night to the garage where he thinks. I’m still not sure exactly why he invited me to join him, but to be honest, it beats sitting in my room alone and trying to read. Trying, being the key word there, because I know exactly where my attention would be, and it wouldn’t be on the book.
An old Alan Jackson song is playing, a cooler night breeze blowing through the open garage door bay. I find a stool off to the side, as if it were put there specifically for me, by the hood of the truck. Before I take a seat, a thought hits me. “I’ll be right back,” I state before turning and heading back to the house.
Inside, I find my camera bag with the old film device. I whip the strap over my neck, stopping at the fridge to grab two bottles of beer and the plastic container of cookies on the counter. With my loot juggled in my arms, I return to the garage.
Mack is already working under the hood, the smell of grease and gasoline filling the air. It’s fami
liar and comforting. It reminds me of home. I take both beer bottles and wrap a shop towel around them and pop open the tops. The first one I set beside his portable tool bench, right by where he’s working. He glances up and sees what I have, a smile spreading across his totally kissable lips.
I tamp down that image and go back to my seat, to where my own beer is waiting. While I make myself comfortable, I pull out my trusty Nikon and shoot a quick picture. Mack is leaning over the grill, standing on a crate, and making an adjustment to the motor. When he hears the familiar click of the shutter, he looks my way, a smudge of dirt across his forehead. Since the camera’s already poised by my eye, I go ahead and snap another one, this time with him looking at me.
The moment I set the camera on my lap, he shakes his head, the faintest smile on his lips. “You and that camera.”
“I’m on my second roll of film,” I tell him, knowing he’ll understand what I mean.
He reaches down and grabs a wrench, turning it against the motor. “I’m not surprised. I am surprised you can still buy film for that thing.”
Taking a drink of my beer, I shrug. “I order it online with the rest of my darkroom supplies.”
I watch in silence for several long minutes, my foot tapping along to Tim McGraw on the radio. Mack keeps working, but I can tell it’s his mind that’s really doing all the exertion. “So are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” I ask, leaning forward so he can hear me over the music and his tinkering.
He glances my way. “Who said anything’s on my mind?”
“Well, you mentioned this was where you go to think, so either you needed someone to talk to or you just didn’t want to be alone,” I state, watching as his back stiffens just a bit.
Mack turns back to the engine and busies his hands. He doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds, but eventually, he does reply. “What if it’s a little of both?”
I set my beer down on the bench beside me and give him my undivided attention. “I’m listening.”
After a quick glance my way, he turns his attention back in front of him. “Today was a…rough day. Sponsor shit in the morning, which I already hate but know is necessary. Then, we had track time. I was all over the place, and it wasn’t just the car. It was me.”
“Why do you think it was you?” I ask.
He exhales and tosses the wrench on the bench. His eyes are fierce, hard and fiery as they turn and pierce me with their intensity. “Because all I could focus on today was you.”
The air heats up and thickens, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. “Me?” I croak out over my dry throat.
Mack leans his hip against the front bumper and relaxes his stance, arms crossed over his expansive chest. “I’m usually much better at turning off my personal shit and flipping the switch to professional, but I’ve been struggling lately. Hell, not just lately. Something’s been off all year, and I’ve been struggling to find my groove. Sunday, I felt like I had finally found it, you know? A top-five finish, my first all season. Then, I get behind the wheel today and could barely keep it from bouncing off the wall.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I mean, what do you really say to that?
“I’m not blaming you, Lean, not really. I’m just struggling to figure out how to deal with all the changes that have happened recently.” He sits on the bumper and rests his elbows on his knees, his jaw on his fists.
“Do you remember the first time you got behind the wheel at Brenton?” I ask, seemingly out of the blue, but there’s a method to my madness.
Mack looks up, his back suddenly straight. “Of course I do.”
I offer a small smile. “I figured. I remember watching you get in my dad’s car. You were so excited, but I could also see your nerves.”
“Hell yes I was nervous. Jim Stanley just offered me a chance to drive his personal dirt track car. I was terrified,” he replies with a laugh.
“Exactly. That first lap was horrible, am I right?”
Mack laughs a deep, hearty sound that goes straight to the apex of my legs. “Horrible.”
“But what did my dad tell you? After those first two laps?”
He sobers a little and stops to think back to that day, when an eighteen-year-old boy got behind the wheel of a race car for the first time. “He told me to breathe.”
“And then?” I encourage, knowing he’ll recall everything that happened that day.
Mack sighs. “He told me to listen to the car, and let her do the talking. He said I’d have good days and bad days, but to always stop and listen. She always had something to say.” He takes a deep breath. “And then he told me not to fuck up his car,” he adds with a hearty chuckle.
I’m already smiling, remembering the one-sided conversation as I stood beside my dad and watched Mack drive the car around the track for the first time. “What happened today?” I ask, keeping any judgment out of my voice.
“I wasn’t listening to the car,” he confesses. “I couldn’t get out of my own head. Sunday, during the race, I was able to shut it all down and just drive, and it felt so fucking good, Lean. Better than I’ve felt in a long damn time.”
“You’re going to have days where your voices are louder than the car’s. You know that,” I remind.
“I know that,” he replies, the frustration evident in his voice. “Why do you think I’m in here?”
“This is your outlet. I get it.” I look over his shoulder and take in his project truck.
His eyes pierce my soul as he gazes over at me. “It’s not how I used to release that tension, but it gets the job done,” he says with a smirk, and I know instantly what he’s referring to, recalling every second of how he’d release his irritation.
A part of me almost offers, gives in to the desire I’ve been struggling to overcome and the sexual tension that’s been a constant blanket around us since I arrived. I’m sure it would be nothing short of amazing, just like it always was. I can practically feel his fingers dancing across my skin now, playing me like an expert musician masters his instrument.
But that’s not what we both need.
Not really.
If that were to happen, I would want it to be because we both just couldn’t take it anymore. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. The desire was just too much to take for even a second longer.
Not because we had an itch to scratch and the other was convenient.
I clear my throat and glance away, breaking the spell. “All I’m saying is don’t let today dictate your tomorrow. So today was an off day. Tomorrow, you get behind the wheel and show it who’s boss.”
He smirks. “Show it who’s boss, huh? I thought I was supposed to listen to her?”
I can’t help but shrug. “Yeah, but sometimes you have to do both. She’ll talk to you and tell you when you’re on the right track or not.”
Mack gently shakes his head and reaches for his beer. “When’d you get so smart?” he teases.
“I’ve always been the brains of the operation,” I tell him. The moment the words are out, I wish I could pull them back. They sound awfully close to couple territory, which we most certainly are not in. Not anymore. What I meant was about my dad, the track, but now, all I can think about is Mack and how my assertiveness and racing smarts would turn him on something fierce.
His eyes darken and he grins that knowing smile. “Yes, you are.”
Present tense.
I’m not sure how to take his comment, so I keep my mouth shut. He seems to do the same, leaving his words hanging between us, and turns back to his truck. He messes around with the carburetor, occasionally wiping his hands on a clean towel and taking a pull from his beer.
After about ten minutes, he asks, “Can you grab me a three-sixteenths wrench over in the drawer?” He nods toward the massive tool chest containing every possible hand tool a man could ever want.
I pull the second drawer open and find the one he’s looking for. When I get back to the truck and he’s still focus
ed on his task in front of him, I step up on the crate and peer inside. His hands are covered in grease as he juggles the bolts. Without even thinking, I reach inside, positioning the wrench to the bolt and turn. I might be a photographer, but I grew up around cars and can hold my own around them.
“I confirmed the rental of a motorhome for the next few races,” he says, concentrating on his task.
“Fontana?”
“And Portland. Long Beach is a few weeks out yet.”
I tighten a bolt and move on to the next. “Makes sense, with Oliver.”
Even though I’m not looking at him, I see him nod his head. “Corporate helped me secure a driver today. We leave for Fontana Friday morning at nine. I have a meeting with my sponsor late morning and a luncheon something or other with all their suits.”
“Oliver and I will be ready,” I confirm.
“I know you will.”
When everything is tightened and in place, Mack turns to me. I should definitely move, considering we’re hip to hip and leaning over the grill of an old Chevy, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m lost in those brown eyes, stuck in their force field by some unknown power.
“Thanks for your help,” he finally says, his voice a touch breathy and labored. Considering he didn’t do anything too strenuous, I’m assuming his reaction is more about our proximity on this crate.
Like mine.
“You’re welcome.”
We stand like that for a few long seconds before he reaches for my face. I suck in a deep breath, my eyes wide as I prepare for his touch, for his hand to cup my cheek like this past weekend. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, I feel his fingers glide along my forehead, leaving a gross trail of slimy grease in their wake. Mack smirks. “Oops.”
I huff out a laugh and give him my best stink-eye. “Right,” I chastise. “Total accident.”
His reply is another hearty laugh. “Totally.”
Mack hops down, throws his tools on the cart, and extends a hand in my direction. It’s dirty, but for some reason, I don’t care. I place mine in his, our palms pressing firmly against each other, and step down.