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He’s brilliant, I know that much. Poking my head into the garage he uses as a workshop one day, I was feeling sassy when I asked, “What do you do in here?”
He was taken off guard. Lifted the welding face shield up and stared at me for a long ten seconds or so before answering, “I build engines, like for cars.”
“Oh. I thought you were an engineer.”
“I am.”
“A mechanical engineer like your friend, Ed?”
“Yeah, but I’m a mechanic first.”
“Like, a mechanic who could fix my car?”
“Icouldfix your car, but I think it deserves to be put out to pasture.”
I try to smile because I know he was just joking, but he senses his misstep and apologizes.
“No, I get it. It’s a junker but I prefer the term vintage.”
“Is it running all right? I’ll take a look at it if you want.”
“How in the heck would I know?” I laugh and it’s genuine now. Gesturing outside, I tease, “You make me drive that monstrosity.”
The monstrosity I’m referring to is a new model Mercedes GLC complete with every available safety feature.
At first I was driving my car here and then using the SUV to cart Olivia around, but Leo now insists on me taking the car back and forth to campus. He says that he can’t be late for work in the event that my crappy Sentra breaks down or can’t handle the winter weather, but sometimes I get the feeling that he’s looking after me, taking care where I’m concerned. I’m sure it’s just wishful thinking on my part.
Over the past few months I’ve pieced together that he’s a great deal more than your everyday mechanic, or mechanical engineer for that matter. He also moonlights as a supervising engineer for a team on the professional racing circuit, and he holds patents for advanced technologies used in race cars, as well as regular old passenger vehicles.
The mechanic thing explains the rough skin on his hands and the speck-like stains underneath his fingernails that never come one hundred percent clean. And when I’m finding dirty fingernails hot, you know I’m hard up and my head is in a very weird place.
This man is my boss, but it’s vastly different from the kind of relationship you develop in an office. I mean, I’ve only held one office position so I don’t know much, but the way I feel about Leo Hale is vastly different from the way I felt about my department chair, Doctor Thompson.
I’m in his home, I’m the one his daughter snuggles up next to on the couch, and I cook his dinner at least three nights a week even though he begs me not to. I do it under the guise of improving Olivia’s eating habits, and while there’s been major improvements made on that front, I also do it because I want him to eat well. He works so hard and he’s juggling this parenting thing all alone. In the very least he deserves some good, home-cooked meals.
It took a few weeks for me to figure it out. When I asked about Olivia’s mother and he said she was out of the picture, I assumed there was a bad break-up story involved. The words he used—Her mother isn’t in the picture at all—at the time I was sure they were said in anger. But I read that wrong. She’s deceased, so I’m thinking that was anguish and pain I heard in his voice.
I imagine it’s a lot of pressure being a single parent. Add tragedy and grief into the mix and it’s no wonder that grumpy is his default mode. He’s not that way with Olivia, and I’ve seen him laughing with his friends when they come over to play cards just as I’m getting ready to leave for the day, but I imagine that he misses his wife and the sadness is a heavy weight to bear.
“Whatever you whipped up this time, it smells incredible.”
I turn to see him walking in the door and watch as he pulls off his hat and coat. His cheeks are red and his hands look raw with cold. February is no joke in Pennsylvania.
“Don’t you own a pair of gloves?”
“Yeah.” Olivia wiggles her rubber glove-clad hands like she’s channeling Beyonce in the video forAll the Single Ladies. “You need gloves, Daddy.”
He looks to her like she holds his heart in her hands. “You’re right. Daddy should wear gloves. It’s colder than a witch’s, um…It’s cold out there tonight.”
“It’s supposed to drop to ten below overnight.”
“Is the heat in your dorm room working properly?”
“Please, it’s alwaystoohot. I don’t know how or why, but even on a night like tonight it will feel like a sauna in my room. The second I get inside I’ll strip down to a tank top and shorts.”
He doesn’t answer, and I’m turning red now thinking maybe that was TMI.
“Tell your dad what’s on the menu for tonight.”
