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I chuckle and clap my hands together loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “Hey, gang, who’s ready to get into it?”
There are a few cheers and some nods. “We’ve got another helper on hand tonight. If anyone needs Orson, yell out. He’s not an expert like Taylor, but we’ll take what we can get.” I bring my hands together again. “Right. Let’s build some winners.”
Clusters of people immediately form, and it fills me with warmth every year. Parents helping out the kids here solo, kids swapping tricks and tips on what helped them last year, and my sixteeners, already sorting through the pile of chassis and parts on offer for them.
This isn’t an official thing. Friends of mine mentioned a few years back how they were building a soapbox car for the race and asked if I could take a look at it. After asking around, I found there were a handful more people I knew who did this kinda thing both for themselves and their kids, so it only seemed obvious to offer up this site so we could all build together.
I’m not in charge here, even if I do pull strings through work to get us what we need and, in return, slap some Ford’s Garage bumper stickers on whatever these kids come up with.
Orson splits off to help a group while I approach my sixteeners. They were only fifteeners last year, and there was one more of them, but apparently, she didn’t want to return with Erin, Daryl, and Crispin. Her loss. I bet she grows up and buys a Prius.
Bitter? Not at all.
I just don’t understand how anyone cannotbe interested in cars.
The next hour and a half, we work to the sound of light conversation, fast music, and the soundtrack of metal hitting metal. There’s energy in the air, raw focus, and the hum of working toward a goal. My sixteeners don’t waste a second. They know the basics of the build but need my supervision on the tools, and everyone is motivated and excited as they make progress.
I do everything I can not to keep glancing over at Orson. I didn’t bring him here for the eye candy for once; it was only because I legitimately wanted him here and thought he’d have a good time. And from the glimpses I’ve been allowed, my hunch is confirmed.
He’s jumped right into it, is getting along with the kids and the parents, and seeing him concentrate on putting the things together is a fucking turn-on. My competency kink is in full overdrive that my florist slash stripper can talk cars with Taylor and hold his own.
Our time is up way too soon. Even though it’s unlikely it’ll rain, the kids cover the start of their soapbox cars with plastic covers and pack away the spare parts they haven’t gotten to yet.
Taylor says bye as they leave, and I wait for the trickle of people to make their way back to their cars and watch that every kid is picked up. It’s not until the final door closes and the red brake lights dim that I let myself turn back to Orson.
“Not a bad way to spend the night, huh?”
Orson’s arms are crossed loosely over his chest, shoulder pressed against the chain-link fence he’s leaning into. His soft smile makes my gut give a violent backflip. “That was really nice. It’s super cool of you to run this.”
“I don’t. Run it, I mean. It’s nothing official; I had the space, so I made the offer.”
His dark brown eyebrows creep upward. “Youwererunning it. It’s your place, your tools, your equipment. They waited for you to get started and asked you whenever they had questions …”
“Ah.” My feet scruff the gravel, shifting under his scrutiny. “Just my area of expertise.”
“So, like I said. It’s cool.”
“Or selfish. I don’t have any kiddies of my own, so this gives me a chance to hang out with the little ankle biters, doing something I love.”
Orson shrugs, eyes shooting away across the yard. “Do youwantsome of your own?”
“Nah. I like teaching them, I like that they’re interested in what I’m interested in, but full-time isn’t something I could do.” Orson looks like he’s thinking about something. “You?”
“No real feelings either way. I always thought I’d have some, but then I lost Tara, and it’s … well, I’ve learned to love my life the way it is.”
“Don’t feel like something is missing?”
He looks at me again, right in the eyes, but all attempts he makes to speak are swallowed.
I try for a reassuring smile that I’m not sure I manage to pull off and step forward to squeeze his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Very. Tonight was nice.”
“Only nice?”
“I caught you checking me out a few times,” he says, a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“Hey, couldn’t let you think I’d gone total choirboy. Had to keep you on your toes.”
