Chapter Eleven
We spend the morning at Carla’s house delaying our inevitable leaving and her finally being completely alone. She digs through drawers and papers, offering me stuff I might want or need. On Dad’s dresser top she finds pictures of me as a kid and a few of my dad and mom together. I put those in my purse.
“What about The Goat?” She asks when she comes across the keys to the car Danny and my dad had fixed up.
I answer her but look at Danny. “What about The Goat?” It’s more his than mine.
“It’s yours,” she hands me the keys. “I’ve got the Ford and I can’t drive that thing.”
Danny eyes are on the keys. I can see that he wants it. He did half the work on it and it’s his tie to my dad. I hold the keys out to him but he shakes his head. “It’s yours. He left it to you.”
“But…”
“I can’t take it with me anyway.”
I had forgotten about his job in Saudi or pushed it out of my mind on purpose.
Carla sees another opportunity to keep us with her for a little while longer. “Well, let’s go see if the darn thing even starts. It’s been months since he drove it.”
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I hand Danny the keys. It can be finicky when you started it and he would know how to finesse and coax it. I actually know how, but this isn’t the moment to let him know that Dom and I had “borrowed” the car a few times through the years.
The moment it turns over and roars to life, we are all still and silent. It’s like my dad is there. The loud sound, the oversized energy, the precision of the mechanics is all Big Mike’s signature in this world. In that moment, I want the car and I want Danny to have it too. We both need this piece of my dad.
We drive around a few blocks, letting the battery charge, all of us silently enjoying the feeling of my dad’s presence. When we get back to the house none of us wants to get out of the car.
As I sit there in the driveway I know exactly what I need to do. “I’m driving this home.”
“Today?” Carla questions.
“Yeah.” I shake my head, picturing the perfection of the idea. Then my perfect idea grows, fate giving me a nod that Danny and I should have more time together. “You coming with me?” I challenge Danny.
He doesn‘t answer right away but I know he can’t resist driving him and Dad’s baby back to Savannah. He looks around the interior assessing the odds of the car making it six hundred and fifty miles. “Yeah, I can’t let you drive this thing home alone. I’m not sure it’ll make it.”
And he’s back to treating me like a child. I smirk at him. “And what are you going to do if it doesn’t?”
He smirks back. “I’m the mechanic that built it. I’m sure I can think of something. What do you think you would do alone?”
I lift up my phone and pointed to the AAA app. “They have tools, you don’t.”
Carla laughs at us from the back seat. “I wish I could be there to see the two of you on this road trip.”
I smile back at her and point to my texting app. “I’ll send you updates.”
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After turning in the rental car and cancelling our flights we stop at a huge truck stop on the edge of the city for provisions. It’s near 7 p.m. and the sun is setting.
“Why don’t I drive to Mobile while you sleep then we can decide whether to take I-10 through Florida or go through Alabama,” As I talk I follow Danny though the store, both of us gathering snacks.
“One, you aren’t driving, I am, and two, we are not going through Florida.” He pours himself a large black coffee and I hand him two sugar packets. “Two?” He questions, as if I’d forgotten his preference.
“It’s a large.” I note, pointing at the 32 ounce coffee cup. He doesn’t reply but dumps both packets into his cup.
“My app is showing six construction zones on the Alabama route. It might be forty miles longer though Florida, but it will be much faster and easier to drive.”
He silently studies the map on my phone. “Fine, Florida, whatever.”
“And there is no reason for you to drive the entire way.”
“Vivey, you can’t handle that car. It’s fast; the steering has too much give…”
“And the brake pedal sticks.” I finish for him. “I’ve driven it, many times.” I let him process that bombshell while I peruse the selection of granola bars.
“Big Mike let you drive that car?”
“Dom and I borrowed it a couple of times and I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t know about it.” I grab two protein bars to go with my iced tea.
“You stole the car.”
The way he says it irritates me to no end—so damn patronizing. We’ve started something new but it’s not going to be easy to let go of what we’ve been to each other these past few years.
I don’t reply to his accusation because I want to tell him where to stick it and not in a sexy way. Instead I walk toward the register and ask if he wants an apple or banana from the fruit basket as we pass it.
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He refuses to sleep but he lets me drive the first leg of the trip to Mobile, saying he wants proof that I know how to drive it. I keep it just above the speed limit and obey all the traffic laws even though I’m itching to push it. Driving it brings back great memories of flying down long, low marshland roads with the windows down and the stereo turned up. I laugh to myself at the memory of Dom throwing herself at the cop who stopped us. At eighteen, she was more silly than sexy and in the end, I’m pretty sure the cop let us go because he was impressed with the car, not us.
When I let him take over on the far side of Mobile, he visibly relaxes, like he’d held his breath the entire time I drove. He eases back into the seat, lets his hand drape across the steering wheel and gear shift, and tunes into the powerful hum of the engine. God he’s sexy like that—in his element. And then there’s the good old front bench seat, just calling me to unhook my seat belt and stretch across it to christen my new car with a little highway head. I decide that now might not be the time but only because we have hours of driving ahead of us. He might be more receptive to killing time that way later.
The sun has set and the early fall night air is cool in the quiet, sparsely populated Florida panhandle. I don’t sleep because I want to talk to him. I want to try to find the kind, attentive man who I fell in love with. The one who existed before my dad left and assigned him the job of my keeper. The one who had an open heart before his wife left him.
The magic of the moment works and our conversation flows easily. We start to fall back into the friendship we had when I was younger. He opens up about his son and his heart relapse, the experimental drugs he’s taking, and the costs.
“One shot, just one damn shot, was over two grand. And he had to get the shot for six months in a row.” He shakes his head in frustration. “That put me behind, and then he had a reaction to the shots and was in the hospital for a few weeks—scared the shit out of me. That was partially covered, but I sold my car to make all the deductibles on that.”
I try to just listen and let him vent, to offer some comfort. I don’t think he’s had anyone to share all this with since my dad left. But I can’t just listen. I’m programmed to fix. If someone presents me with a problem I can’t help but find a solution. And like the pieces of a puzzle falling into place, I see it. I know how I can help Danny get back on his feet faster and give us some time together. The problem is that the guy who sees himself as taking care of me will probably be less than amiable to moving in with me.