hands on a shop towel. “Thanks. This is my thinking space. I figured since Oliver was with you, I could come in here and tinker for a bit,” he says, diverting his eyes to the engine of the old truck.
Knowing the baby is fine where he is, I step around the stroller and run my hand over the side of the truck. “Is this…was this one yours? The old one?” I ask, my voice full of emotion.
“Uhh, no, that one was probably scrapped years ago. This is one I found online about a year ago. I was craving a new project to jump into and found this one on Craigslist. An older gentleman bought it brand-new in eighty-six. He passed away, and his widow was looking to get it out of the garage.”
I head for the car in back, the late sixties model Ford Mustang. “And this one?”
Mack chuckles. “That’s actually Fish’s baby. It was his car when he turned sixteen, but it’s never really run right. When his marriage to Ava fell apart, he brought it here to start working on it. His new place is pretty small and the garage even tinier. No room for both cars.”
“What happened with his wife?” I ask, taking in the primer and the car parts all over the bench beside the car.
He shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Not really my story to tell, Lean,” he says as his eyes lock on mine, “but life is too short to be anything but happy.”
I nod, my throat thick and lumpy. Just then, Oliver starts to stir and releases a banshee war cry. “Someone’s probably ready for his dinner,” I announce.
“I’ll go with you,” Mack says, heading over to the stroller.
We head into the house and proceed through our nightly routine, but I can tell something is on his mind. He’s one-hundred-percent vested in Oliver, but there’s something in the lines around his eyes and the tightness in his smile. Call it intuition, but I know he’s got something on his mind. I’m just not sure if I should let him work through it himself or if he’s looking for an ear to bend.
After Oliver’s bath, I get his little footie pajamas on him. He smells so clean, his skin so soft, I just want to snuggle him close and drink him in. My eyes fill with tears as his wet fuzzy head nestles in the crook of my neck. I’m going to miss this part. The wide-eyed look he gives me when I’m dressing him. The way his arms and legs kick with excitement as I tell him about some silly story from my childhood. The feel of his body relaxing completely in my arms as he drifts off to sleep.
I pass him off to Mack, who settles into the rocker to give him his bedtime bottle. Mack softly talks to him, telling him about some sponsorship thing he had to do today, mumbling about how much he hates shooting commercials. Even though I’m not directly in the room, I can picture Oliver’s dark eyes drinking him in, hanging on his every word until he reaches the point where his eyes grow too heavy to keep open.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mack carefully get up from the rocker, setting the empty bottle down beside the chair. I close the dishwasher and press the power button as the boys appear in the doorway. “He’s out.”
A smile crests my lips as I gingerly walk over to where they stand. This part has become routine too. Oliver is positioned against Mack’s chest, his little mouth open in slumber. His pudgy little cheek is pressed against his dad’s chest and his arms curled up under his body.
I move in, inhaling the best scent in the world. A combination of Oliver and Mack. My hand grasps Mack’s upper arm for stability (or just because I want to touch him) as I lean in and brush my lips against Oliver’s cheek. “Good night, sweet boy,” I whisper, taking in another long whiff of baby shampoo.
Mack just stands there, our eyes meeting like two magnets, the pull drawing me in. I almost go up on my tiptoes. Almost make a move. Almost throw caution to the wind and kiss him. I want to so badly, but I don’t. Something’s still holding me back, keeping me from taking a step toward him. I’m certain he’d welcome me, my kiss. I’ve known him long enough to