Page 58 of Down Bad

“Oh, Lee and Toby’s dad? Yeah. He gets talkative. Better than getting drunk. He … kinda used to have a problem.” I catch myself suddenly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to gossip. I trust you. Far as I know, he’s been sober for two years, maybe three. I see his wife Marlene at church on Sundays. His stepson leaving town really did a weird number on him.”

“You always this concerned about everyone?” asks Diego.

I wonder if the real question he’s asking is if I’m always this nosy about people. For a moment, I don’t know how to answer.

He almost asked the question politely, for one.

Second, he’s got a point.

“Probably.”

He glances at me.

I shrug. “It’s exhausting.”

He casts his gaze aside, lowering his head. “Sounds like it.” He rubs at a spot on his jaw, then starts busying himself under the hood again as I stand next to him, watching.

After a moment, I take a step closer. “Can I help?”

He doesn’t look up. “Nah.”

I cross my arms, drum my fingers, fidget. “You sure?”

He says nothing. Then he blinks hard, sighs, and says, “Hand me the thirteen.”

I freeze. “You need thirteen of … what …?”

He looks up. “Wrench.”

I turn to the toolbox near him—and the array of wrenches.

All matters of wrenches.

“The thirteenth one from the … left?”

He snorts—does that count as a laugh?—turns, takes one of the wrenches out, then shows it to me. “Thirteen millimeter. If it’s not this one I need, it’s the ten.” He lifts another one, gives it a wiggle, then sets it back in the toolbox. “Or, if you want, you can just keep to your wildflower experiment that looks like it’s going fairly well, and I’ll …” He glances back at the engine with a sigh. “… continue pretending like I know what in the hell I’m doing.”

I smile. “Sorry. I’m probably not as helpful with this as I’d like to be. Total fish outta water when it comes to car stuff.”

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

He dives back into the engine.

I lean my hip against the side of the car, watching him work. He doesn’t seem to mind, otherwise I might take him up on that suggestion of just minding the flowerbed.

I wonder if he minds conversation. “So this car means a lot to you, huh?”

He pauses. Then cranks the wrench some more. Pauses again. “Ten.”

I don’t follow for half a second, then realize he’s asking for a tool. I unfold my arms and turn back to the toolbox, looking over the wrenches. I offer one. “This?”

He takes it, gives it a look, then goes back into the engine.

I assume I’m right and feel a pinch of satisfaction.

After a while: “Thirteen.”

I hand him the other tool right back.