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Ryder’s voice is full of concern, “Are you somewhere safe?”
“I mean,” I look around, not seeing much since I was coming from outside of the city and I haven’t quite gotten back to it yet, “I think so? There’s not much around.”
“Were you able to pull over to the shoulder safely?”
“Yes,” I try and take comfort in Ryder’s soothing voice before I describe where I’m stopped on the side of the road.
I hear muffled voices and I’m sure he’s talking to a few people, but I know almost everyone has been drinking. I don’t hold it against them considering everyone is staying out at the SO commune tonight. Except me, apparently.
“Okay,” Ryder’s voice is soothing, “I’m going to call a friend of mine. His name is Theo.”
“He’s the guy who helped you rebuild your car, right?”
I find myself smiling because the way Ryder talks about his classic muscle car is sweet. It gave him a purpose when he came back to civilian life after serving in the military. This was years before the family came together and long before he met Chloe.
“Yes, you’ll be safe with him,” he insists as if he knows I’m worried about it.
I’m good with the men of my family, but I tend to stay away from men I don’t know. I trust Ryder with my life, though.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll be here.”
“I’m calling him right now and I’ll let you know if anything changes. If I have to, I’ll fucking walk to where you are.”
I find myself laughing softly. Not because I don’t believe him, but because I do. “I’ll be fine. I won’t get out of my car until he gets here. Thank you. Love you, big brother.”
“Love you, little sister,” I can hear just how much he does love me in his voice before we hang up.
Instead of getting some time to myself at home, I’ll be spending some alone time on the side of the road. It could be worse. Maybe.
CHAPTER 2
THEO
I adjust the light a little before I move back underneath the hood of the car I’m working on. It’s late and a holiday, but this engine isn’t going to rebuild itself and it’s the first step in getting this classic out of the junk heap and back on the road. It’s the only thing in my life that gives me a sense of satisfaction, one I cherish.
It also helps me to feel closer to my father. He taught me everything I know about cars. He’s the one who encouraged me to take over for him when I was only 20. I was able to do it because of the way he believed in me.
I had to fight to get people’s respect and trust. Trust my father already had.
I had no idea he had ulterior motives for having me take over the business and pouring all his belief in me. He knew he was sick then, but he didn’t tell me until he had basically lost his fight against cancer. That was an emotional conversation and I wanted to be pissed, but how could I be mad at him?
He looked at me with tears in his eyes, but he held them back because it was the kind of man he was, “There’s nothing to be done. I’ve let the doctors poke and prod me. I’ve let them pump me full of chemicals in the hope that something would fight this for me. There’s no fighting it.”
He looked so defeated, but I had to know, and my voice cracked as I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would have been there with you at the treatments and the appointments.” I scoffed, “I thought you had finally found a woman and that’s what you were doing with your time.”
He gave me a wicked grin, but it wasn’t quite genuine. “I could have had a woman, but no,” he sighed. “I know you would have gone with me, Son, but I wanted you here. I wanted you to pour yourself into this business because it’s my legacy and it’s your destiny. You’re good at it and I wanted to see you find your home in the garage. You couldn’t have done anything other than sit on your ass and worry. I didn’t want that for you.”
I wanted to scream at him, to yell and rage, but I couldn’t. He was right. I would have sat and moped around if I had known about his illness sooner. Now, I don’t remember the time he was sick, not really. I remember him showing me how to rebuild a carburetor and how to paint a pinstripe with a steady hand, though I wasn’t very good at it at first. I was too impatient, but he never lost his cool with me.
He taught me everything and then left me with all the pieces to make his dream, which became mine, into something that could sustain my life and keep me going after he was gone. Which is why I’m working on a car on the Fourth of July while listening to the fireworks going off in the distance instead of tossing back a few beers with some friends.
Cars are easy to understand. If there’s a problem with a car, I know what steps to take to fix it. If it’s seen better days, I know it just needs a little TLC and I can bring it back to its former glory. My garage doesn’t just restore classic cars, but that’s where my heart and soul truly live. I love taking something about to scrapped and turn it around and give it new life.
It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something and saved a piece of history in the process. Other people might not agree with my outlook because they want to look toward the future and the next new thing, but taking care of something that’s been forgotten and broken is beautiful. Restoration is the work that fuels me and makes me get up every day looking forward to the day.
It’s also what keeps me up at night and makes my back ache from the way I bend over my work sometimes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. If something can be fixed, is it really broken?
I’m so surprised when my phone rings that I almost hit my head on the hood as I stand up quickly. No one calls me this late and it’s rare for me to get any calls on my cell phone. Half the time I don’t even remember to bring it with me to the garage. It’s kind of strange that I did tonight.
