Chapter 17 Under the Hood #2
“Sixteen,” he said with the resigned pride of a single parent who'd been doing this alone for years.
“Thinks I don't eat enough vegetables. Keeps packing my lunch like I'm still in elementary school. Ever since her mom...” He trailed off, shrugging in that way men do when emotions get too close to the surface.
“Smart kid,” Gideon observed, filling the silence with gentle understanding. “Vegetables are important. So are daughters who worry about their dads.”
Mason's smile was soft around the edges, the kind that spoke of bedtime stories and parent-teacher conferences and all the small sacrifices that came with raising a teenager on your own. “Yeah, she's pretty great. Pain in the ass sometimes, but great.”
I watched their easy banter with something warm and fierce settling in my chest. This was what belonging felt like—not the formal politeness of professional relationships, but the messy, comfortable, absolutely essential tangle of chosen family.
As we entered the diner, the familiar smell of grease and possibility wrapped around me like a hug from my teenage years. Cal immediately claimed the booth near the windows, sliding across cracked vinyl with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been thinking about food for the past hour.
“Dibs on the window seat,” he announced, patting the space beside him. “I like to people-watch while I eat. It's educational.”
“Educational how?” Mason asked, settling across from him with the careful movements of someone whose back had seen better days.
“You learn things. Like how Mrs. Peterson from the flower shop always orders her coffee black but adds four packets of sugar when she thinks nobody's looking. Or how the mailman has a crush on the librarian but only waves at her through the window because he's too shy to actually go inside.”
“You're a gossip,” Mason said without heat, already scanning the laminated menu like he didn't know every item by heart.
“I'm a student of human nature,” Cal corrected with wounded dignity. “There's a difference.”
Evan slid in beside Mason, leaving me the spot next to Cal, and even doing something as mundane as settling into a booth, he moved like he belonged in his own skin in ways that eighteen-year-old Evan never had.
The sight made my chest do complicated things that had nothing to do with the diner's questionable ventilation system.
“So,” Gideon said, claiming the chair at the end of our table and picking up the menu with theatrical consideration. “What's the verdict on small-town dining after six years of Chicago cuisine?”
“Honestly? I missed this more than I thought I would.” I gestured around the diner, taking in the mismatched salt shakers and the handwritten specials board that looked like it hadn't been updated since the Clinton administration.
“There's something to be said for a place that doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is.”
“Careful,” Evan said, and there was something warm in his voice that made my stomach flutter like a teenager with his first crush. “Keep talking like that and people might think you're planning to stick around.”
The comment was casual, teasing, but underneath it I caught something that might have been hope. Like the idea of me staying wasn't entirely unwelcome, even if he was too careful to say so directly.
“Maybe I am,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “Thinking about it, anyway.”
The silence that followed was pregnant with possibility, broken only by Cal's dramatic gasp.
“Did you hear that, boys? We might have ourselves a permanent member of the brotherhood.”
“Don't scare him off,” Mason said dryly. “We just got him inducted.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that—or whether the flutter in my chest was panic or excitement—our waitress materialized beside the table.
“Afternoon, boys,” she said, coffee pot already in hand like some sort of caffeine-wielding fairy godmother. “What can I get you started with?”
Twenty minutes later, we were working our way through burgers that probably violated several health regulations but tasted like they'd been blessed by whatever gods watched over small-town diners.
The conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from the town council's latest bureaucratic disasters to Cal's theory that all car problems could be solved with the right combination of WD-40 and creative cursing.
“I'm telling you,” Cal said around a mouthful of fries, “that Chevy's not making that noise because the transmission's going bad. It's making that noise because it's lonely.”
“Cars don't get lonely,” Mason pointed out with the patience of someone who'd had this conversation before.
“How do you know? Have you ever asked one?”
“I don't speak car.”
“Well, there's your problem right there.”
I caught Evan's eye across the table, and the shared amusement that passed between us felt like stepping into warm sunlight after months of winter.
This was what I'd been missing in Chicago—not just Evan, but this.
The easy camaraderie, the sense of belonging somewhere, the feeling that I was part of something larger than my own ambitions and failures.
“I'll be right back,” Evan said, sliding out of the booth. “Don't eat my fries.”
“No promises,” Cal called after him, already eyeing Evan's plate with predatory interest.
I watched Evan disappear around the corner toward the restrooms, then turned back to find Gideon studying me with those sharp blue-gray eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw.
“You’re settling in well,” Gideon observed, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking about me, not Evan.
“It's easier than I thought it would be,” I admitted. “Coming back, I mean. I expected everything to feel... smaller. More confining.”
“And does it?”
I considered the question, glancing around the table at Cal (who was now systematically stealing Mason's pickle), Mason (who was pretending not to notice), and Gideon (who was watching this entire interaction with barely concealed amusement).
“No,” I said slowly. “It feels like breathing again.”
“Good,” Gideon said simply. “That boy of ours has been holding his breath for six years, waiting for something he was too afraid to name. Maybe you both can finally exhale.”
The casual way he said 'our boy' made something warm and fierce settle in my chest. Like I wasn't just being welcomed back into Evan's life, but into this strange little family of mechanics and misfits who'd apparently adopted him in my absence.
“Speaking of which,” Cal said, having successfully claimed Mason's pickle with the stealth of a master thief, “you should know that subtlety isn't exactly your strong suit.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Cal gestured vaguely between where I sat and where Evan had been moments before. “You two. The longing looks. The careful not-touching that somehow feels more intimate than actual touching. It's like watching the world's most polite mating dance.”
My face went nuclear. “We're not—”
“Dancing?” Mason asked with deadpan delivery. “Could've fooled me. There was definitely some sort of choreographed eye contact happening.”
“You're both terrible,” I muttered, but there wasn't any real heat behind it. Mostly because they weren't wrong, and we all knew it.
Gideon's chuckle was rough with years of experience watching young idiots figure themselves out. “Don't mind them, son. They're just jealous they don't have anyone to make googly eyes at.”
“I don't make googly eyes,” Cal protested. “I make smoldering, mysterious glances.”
“You make constipated faces,” Mason corrected. “There's a difference.”
The old-fashioned word 'courting' made my chest tight with something that felt suspiciously like hope. Because that's what this was, wasn't it? Some tentative, complicated dance around the possibility that maybe we could try again. Maybe this time we could get it right.
“Besides,” Cal added cheerfully, “if anyone gives you trouble, just mention that you're part of the brotherhood now. We look after our own.”
“What exactly does that involve?” I asked, curious despite myself.
“Mostly drinking beer and arguing about carburetor maintenance,” Mason said. “Sometimes we fix things.”
“Sometimes we break things while trying to fix them,” Cal corrected. “It's very scientific.”
“Scientific,” Gideon repeated with the kind of fond exasperation that spoke of years of managing Cal's particular brand of chaos.
Footsteps approached, and I looked up to see Evan returning from the restroom, something lighter in his expression that suggested he'd taken a moment to center himself.
He slid back into the booth with that unconscious grace, eyes moving between all of us with the sharp attention of someone who'd learned to read group dynamics.
“Everything okay?” he asked, and there was concern in his voice that made my chest tight with gratitude.
“Just explaining the brotherhood membership benefits to our newest recruit,” Cal said with exaggerated formality. “Making sure he understands the responsibilities that come with the honor.”
Evan's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Are we still talking about fixing cars?”
“Among other things,” Gideon said mysteriously.
The loaded silence that followed was broken by our waitress appearing with the check, and the moment passed into something lighter, easier.
But the warmth of acceptance lingered as we paid and made our way back to the garage, a reminder that second chances sometimes came wrapped in the most unexpected packages.