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Framed posters of the cars I’ve restored line the walls. Like the Studebaker Golden Hawk that dampened as many panties as the leading man who drove it for six seasons of The Bad Doctor.
Or the 1971 Pontiac GTO that starred in a recent reboot of Disco Nights and Hollywood Days.
And, my personal favorite—the sleek black Bentley that ended up splashed across the movie poster for a blockbuster spy flick.
All courtesy of Jesse’s Garage.
I’m barely thirty, and I’m one lucky bastard to have had my tools, my hands, and my vision all over these sweet wheels.
Sweeping out an arm to encompass the goodness, I turn to my buddy Max. “Admit it. She’s perfect.” Because all garages, all cars, hell, all good things are shes.
“Of course she’s perfect. That was the plan.” He sets the final page from a stack of documents on the counter beside us. He offers me a pen. “And because she is, I’ll need your John Hancock one last time.”
I scratch out my signature on the final page, then hand it to him with pride thrumming through me.
I did this.
I made this happen.
Max takes the pages, drops them into a folder in his messenger bag, and pats the side of it. The messenger bag is incongruous on a lawyer. But then again, so are the skinny pants and paisley patterned button-down. Max is rocking a look I call Brooklyn hipster attorney versus city-slicker in a three-piece suit.
“And now you, sir, are the proud owner of a brand-new Edsel,” he says.
“Anyone ever told you you’re a smart-ass?”
“Anyone ever told you not to hire a friend as your business attorney?” he asks with a wink.
“Look at you. A lawyer, cracking jokes.”
“Almost as unheard of as hand delivery of documents from legal counsel.”
“Benefits of being friends with said legal counsel.”
He adopts a blank expression. “Friends? We’re friends?”
I roll my eyes. “Dickhead.”
He glances at his watch. “That’ll add another five minutes to your hour.”
“But it took less than five seconds to say.”
“Billing increments. You know how it goes.”
“Speaking of you working off the clock for a buddy, want to grab a beer tonight to celebrate the deal?”
He taps his chin. “Hmmm. In that case, add a full sixty minutes.”
“Then I’m rescinding the offer.”
“I suppose that’s only fair,” he says, then nods toward the street outside. “And yes, I would kill for a beer, but there’s a diaper at home needing changing. And then I have to play with my kid.” He rolls his eyes like toddler time is a drag, but I know it’s the opposite for Max. He’s crazy about his nearly two-year-old daughter, Penny.
“Sounds like a fun Friday night.”
“It’s my favorite kind,” he says, in a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret love of the dad life is safe with me.”
He taps his temple. “And all yours are safe in the vault.”
I laugh, then clap him on the shoulder. “Good thing I’m an open book.”
He takes off, and I wave goodbye, not really minding that we’re not grabbing a beer. Beneath the smart-ass, Max is relentlessly upbeat these days. He’s a lawyer happy with his practice, a man happy with his wife, and a dad over the moon to finally have the kid he and Theresa went through years of fertility treatments to conceive.
And hell, I’m glad he’s living the good life. That’s how it should be. We should all be happy in the jobs we pick, with the people we fall for, enjoying the lives we choose to live.
But sometimes his Zen gets under my skin.
No matter how proud I am of the things I’ve accomplished, I haven’t quite found my sweet spot.
By all counts, I should be on Cloud Nine. I’m a self-made man on the road to even bigger, brighter success thanks to this deal. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, so why does my gut feel . . . hollow?
Own up to it, man.
I have a pretty good fucking idea.
And, with the paperwork finished, that’s the only loose end left to tie up here.
It’s a big one.
Huge.
But there’s no time like the present, especially when you’re already operating on borrowed time.
I fire off a text.
Jesse: Good luck this afternoon, Ruby. Big day for you, so here’s a huge congrats. Also, I’d love it if you could stop by later. I have something for you.
Ruby: Monkey wrench? Motor oil? New horn for my beach cruiser bike? Can it be one that sounds like an ice cream truck?
Jesse: Is this your way of telling me you’re getting into bike-based ice cream sales? So very you, with the side hustles.
Ruby: Ha. No way. I’m happy with a water bottle and a sketch book in my basket, thank you. But I’ll put that on my short list for alternative careers in case I get kicked out of the family business. And yes, I’ll stop by for the not-an-ice-cream-truck-horn surprise. Thank you.
