Page 19 of Worth the Trip

“You coming?”

Their house was less than twenty minutes away. The film waiting on my laptop would still be film, whether I watched it at two or six, and if Ramirez discovered something urgent enough to require me before then, he knew how to call.

“I’ll be there.”

“I’ll keep your plate warm.”

“I haven’t even said how long.”

“You said you coming.”

“That’s enough information?”

“For me.”

I smiled. “Love you.”

“Love you too, baby. Drive safe.”

The call ended, and I changed lanes toward my parents’ neighborhood. My family had never needed an announcement every time love entered the room. Mama cooked. Pops called without admitting he needed help. Lennox usually ate something that wasn’t his. Everybody understood the system.

The Brooks house looked almost exactly the way it had my entire life. Same white brick. Same wraparound porch. Same crepe myrtles Mama planted when Lennox was little, only now they were tall enough to throw shade across half the yard. I parked behind Pops’s truck, walked through the unlocked front door, and got hit with onion, garlic, and something frying before I heard metal clanging beneath the kitchen sink.

I followed the noise.

Pops had half his body tucked inside the cabinet, one grease-stained hand wrapped around a wrench.

I leaned against the doorway and folded my arms. “You winning?”

His voice echoed from beneath the sink. “I was.”

“What happened?”

“You got here.”

I laughed. “Good to see you too.”

Pops rolled backward on the mechanic’s creeper until his face came into view. His eyes dropped immediately to my empty hands.

“You got your tools?”

“In the truck.”

“Good.”

That was his version of asking.

Pops had spent most of his life believing if his own hands could solve something, they should. Somewhere along the way, we’d built a language that let him keep his dignity while I kept him from destroying household plumbing. He identified the problem, I showed up with tools, and neither of us wasted time calling the arrangement assistance.

I nodded toward the cabinet. “What’s the diagnosis?”

“Cheap parts.”

“You sure?”

“You questioning me?”

“I enjoy being alive.”