Page 5 of Diesel’s Second Chance

"I just meant—" I start.

"I know what you meant," Jackson says.

But he doesn't. He can't. Because what I meant is that I can't imagine this town without him in it, can't imagine my life without these monthly dinners that are supposed to be about honoring Tommy but have somehow become about the only time I feel like I'm not just going through the motions.

And I can't say any of that because it feels like a betrayal of my husband's memory and also because Jackson Reed has never once given me any indication that he sees me as anything other than his best friend's widow.

I turn onto Maple Street, heading toward the industrial area where Jackson's garage sits like a monument to his father's legacy. The rain's coming down so hard I almost miss the turn, and have to brake harder than I mean to. Jackson braces one hand against the dashboard but doesn't comment.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"It's fine."

Everything's fine. We're both fine. This whole terrible, awkward drive is fine.

I hate it.

The garage appears through the rain, a squat brick building with *Reed's Auto* painted in fading letters above the bay doors. Jackson's father opened it thirty-something years ago, back when Millhaven still had enough people to support three mechanics. Now it's the only one left, and Jackson runs it alone because he's too stubborn to hire help and too loyal to let his father's legacy die.

I pull into the small parking lot and put the car in park, engine still running, heat blasting. Jackson reaches for the door handle immediately, like he can't wait to get away from this conversation.

"Thanks for the ride," he says.

I don't want him to leave. Not like this, not with this tension sitting between us unresolved. Not when I can see the exhaustion in every line of his face and know he's going to walk into that empty garage and work until three in the morning because he doesn't know how else to cope.

The words come out before I can stop them. "Can I come in?"

Jackson pauses, hand on the door, and turns to look at me. "What?"

"The garage. Can I come in for a bit?" I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to sound casual. "I haven't been inside in... God, it's been years. Since your dad's funeral, maybe. I'd like to see it again. If that's okay."

It's a thin excuse and we both know it. But it's also true. I haven't been inside Reed's Auto since the reception after Walt's funeral, when half the town crowded into the shop to share stories and eat casseroles and pretend they weren't watching Jackson try to hold himself together.

That was eight years ago. Tommy was still alive then. I was still someone different.

Jackson glances at my face for a moment, and I can see him trying to figure out if this is a good idea. Probably deciding it's not. But then his expression softens just slightly, and he nods.

"Yeah. Okay."

I kill the engine and grab my purse, and we both make a run for the side entrance. The rain hasn't let up at all, if anything, it's coming down harder. By the time Jackson gets the door unlocked and we're inside, we're both dripping onto the worn linoleum of the narrow entryway.

"Christ," Jackson mutters, wiping water from his face. "Hang on."

He disappears through a doorway and returns a moment later with two towels, both faded and fraying at the edges, but clean. I take one and press it to my face, then try to wring some of the water from my hair.

"Thanks."

"Yeah. Stairs are there if you want to see the apartment, but I figured you meant the shop."

"The shop," I confirm.

He nods and leads me through the doorway into the main garage. The overhead lights flicker on with a mechanical hum, illuminating the space I remember from childhood.

It's exactly the same and completely different all at once.

The layout hasn't changed.

Two bays with lifts, a third bay for smaller jobs, Walt's old workbench against the back wall covered in tools. The smell is the same too: motor oil, metal and that indefinable scent that just means garage. But there are differences. New equipment I don't recognize. A tool board that's more extensive than I remember. And everywhere, signs of Jackson: his handwriting on work orders pinned to a corkboard, his jacket hanging on a hook by the door, a coffee mug sitting on the workbench that says *I'm Not Arguing, I'm Just Explaining Why I'm Right*.