I don’t know what it is, but it’s from her, and I know it’s not for a car. Which means it’s only for one other thing.
seven
. . .
i don’t know what it is, but it’s from her, and i know it’s not for a car. which means it’s only for one other thing.
I’ve always known that Delane is a sharp woman.
As I’m cleaning up Salsa’s food dish, crushing my empty can, and dropping it into the recycling, I think about Delane’s words.
“It shows you’re not trying to prove anything.
” Granted, I realize she was referring to my sexual confidence, but still, her words stuck.
Maybe that’s a common theme in my life, not just my inability to successfully stay with a woman. Maybe I’m always trying to prove myself to people rather than just enjoying myself and who I am now.
On that thought, I sit down at my table and pull out a fresh sheet of paper, writing Dear Dad at the top. Why do I write these? Am I trying to prove to him that my decision to leave, while incredibly hard, was the right one for me?
I don’t know if that’s what I’m trying to do. The decision to leave was the smartest choice for me–had I stayed with my family on the commune, I would have been absolutely miserable. I know that.
Do I feel compelled for him to know? I don’t know. And instead of figuring that out, I write another letter.
I don’t have much small talk to start this one out, Dad.
I’m just sitting here in my apartment wondering who I’d be if I were still living with you and mom.
There are times when I miss having a family so much that it physically hurts me.
Sometimes I wake up in this place I love and pay for and am proud to have and feel so alone that I want to lie in bed and cry.
I don’t, though. I guess that’s one thing that stuck. Men don’t cry.
Even when I’m that sad, when the loneliness and lack of family to spend holidays with really eat at me, I don’t really miss the commune.
I only miss the idea of family. And I’m starting to realize that if I had stayed, I’d have you and mom, but I wouldn’t be me, not really.
I’d be some version of me that you and mom crafted and forced into some mold, and I couldn’t do it. I know I couldn’t.
I don’t know what else to say other than I left to live, and while living can be hard, something occurred to me tonight: being alive and not living is much harder than living with difficulties.
I hope you’re well. I hope mom is too.
Your son,
Miller
I fold the letter in thirds as I have done for years, slide it into an envelope, write dad’s name from habit, and add it to the box before flicking off the light, locking my door, and heading to bed.
Stopping off at Delilah’s Deli before I head into work, I pick up a coffee for Delane and a bagel, too.
She likes the sweet ones, so I grab her a Cinnamon Toast Crunch with plain cream cheese on the side and a coffee just the way she likes it.
The idea of passing her a cup of coffee and breakfast lights my soul, and I let myself get a little carried away, envisioning her waking up next to me and me bringing in a tray of warm food, feeding her breakfast while we kiss and talk and enjoy a slow morning together.
That thought trips me up a little, and the drive to Wrench Kings whirrs by as I dream of what life could be like with a woman like Delane.
I’m sure my inexperience is secretly laughable to her. That a twenty-six-year-old virgin is essentially a joke, but the way she treats me is so kind and doesn’t make me feel bad for my insecurities or inexperience… It makes me like her all that much more.
And if I’m being real, I already liked her a decent amount, though I don’t know if I’d admit it to Atti or Beau.
Carrying a tray of coffees—because I nabbed one for Atti and Beau, too–I angle my back toward the door, pushing it open with my body. Delane is behind the desk, curls down, framing her face in a way that makes me want to lose my fingers in all that hair, hold her and stroke her and kiss her.
“Morning,” I choke out around the knot in my throat. I raise the tray and bag. “I brought breakfast.”
She blinks once, reaching below the counter to produce her own tray of coffees from Delilah’s. “Great minds think alike.”
There are just two cups in her tray, and my heart does a flip that when she bought those, she was thinking of only us.
“That they do,” I reply, setting the tray and bag down next to her tray. “But before we eat, let’s get your car in bay one.” I extend my hand to her and wiggle my fingers.
“What?” she looks at my open hand with confusion.
“I’ll move it in. You just get your coffee and meet me under bay one.”
She fishes out her keys and hands them over. “It’s really cold out. I don’t expect you to move it. I can move it,” she argues softly.
I shake my head. “That’s why I’m moving it. It’s cold out. You don’t need to be out there any more than you have to.” Times like this, I remember how much she does for herself and her family. I wish I could do things for her. I really do.
But she’s helping me, and I’m getting time with her because of it, so I ought to be grateful, not wishful. She drops the keys in my hand. “Thanks.”
A few minutes later, I’m under the bay, Delane extends a cup of coffee to me, waiting with a scarf wrapping her neck. The ends of her hair are caught in it, and before I take the cup from her, I use my gloved hands to free the curls from the scarf.
Her face is pink from the cold. “Thanks,” she says quietly, her words hovering in white air between us. It’s cold out, and she wants to do this, but she doesn’t have to do it freezing. I shrug out of my thick Wrench Kings coat, the one all employees have for working in the bays during winter.
She hands me the cups, fishes her arms through my coat without argument, then takes just one coffee back. “I should have said no, you don’t have to, but honestly, I’m cold as fuck. ”
I laugh at that, running my free hand up and down the length of her arm, covered in my coat. She looks good in my coat, even though it’s too big and a little dirty. But my name is embroidered across her chest, and nothings looked better.
“Well,” I say after a too-hot sip of my coffee. “Let’s get started.” I slide a pair of safety glasses on her nose once I’ve placed both coffees on a table nearby.
“I feel like Elton John; these things are so big,” she grins, pushing the large plastic glasses up her nose.
“I don’t know who that is, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Oh man,” she groans, “I forgot you’re still playing catch up. I know where you are on books and movies, but how are you doing on music?”
I volley my head as I step under her car, pulling a Brite-Mark out of my pocket to mark a line between the drive shaft and the differential’s pinion flange.
“I’m listening my way through Rolling Stone’s top 500 albums right now, but when I was younger, when I first left, I started with everything. Cycled through radio stations.”
I make the marks and tell her what I’m doing and why. She nods, and the next time I glance back at her, she’s got her weathered The Mechanics Bible out, making notes in the margins.
I like that she really wants to do this.
It’s not a whim or for show–Delane’s invested.
She’s going to be great at this one day, and I’d be honored to say I helped in that journey.
We continue to talk about music as I place the fluid catch pan down under the output seal at the end of the transmission.
I learn that Delane likes everything but country music, and I agree with her on that.
Pointing to things when I call them out, I see Delane’s already a wealth of knowledge, and I feel some level of pride I know doesn't belong to me. I didn’t teach her anything, not yet, but her knowledge makes me so proud of her.
I learned hands-on, and she learned from an outdated book–I continue to be in awe of her as she takes a spot next to me, removing the fasteners and yoke retainers from the driveshaft, unanchoring it from the pinion flange.
Some of her wild curls catch against my hoodie as I reach up, holding the driveshaft in place as she makes sure it’s ready to slide out of its housing.
I can smell her hair this close. All flowery and fresh.
And with my arms up and the cold air circling us, my lower half starts to like having her this close a little bit too much.
“Almost done?” I ask, eager to get some space between us before I pitch a tent and embarrass myself. She huffs a little, not speeding up at all.
“Don’t rush me; I’m learning.”
A moment later, she’s removing the driveshaft from its yoke in the transmission, lowering it.
“I know this was just a trial run, but I’ll tell you what to do with the new one when you make the swap.”
She nods eagerly, pushing a curl from her face with the back of her wrist, leaving a slight smear of chassis grease across her skin.
I use my gloved thumb, step close to her, and rub it away.
We’re close, and her chest grazes mine as she sucks in a sharp breath.
Our eyes lock, and my body is torn between dying to get closer to her and needing to step back.
“Thanks,” she says, the word not much more than a whisper.
We remain close together, and I hand down words like I’m reciting my wedding vows as opposed to telling her how to replace a drive shaft.
I can’t help it. I can’t force any rigidity into my voice when I’m this close to her.
I’m nervous and excited and… nearly out of breath as her breasts rise up against me.
“Just watch your output seal when you’re sliding the shaft back into the yoke. And make sure it’s got a lot of chassis grease on it.”
She grins, and I feel it south of the border. “Don’t break the ring on the condom when you slide the cock inside and make sure to add a lot of lube.”