be able to read his desire, his want. It’s been there several times, each time more magnetic than the last.
But I already know what that one thing is. The drawback.
I’m leaving.
End of story.
I’m not sure my heart can take it when I fall in love with him all over again, only to have the same ending to our story.
That’s why I pull back. That’s why I break eye contact and smile down at the little boy in his arms, placing a second kiss on his face. The kiss meant for his dad.
I miss the heat of his arm beneath my palm the second he pulls away and heads upstairs. I miss the look in his eyes, the one filled with gratitude and appreciation. I miss the way my body responds whenever he’s near. I ignore all of that and finish cleaning the kitchen. I put all of my focus on scrubbing the counter and stovetop. I make sure the sink is food-free, so I’m not cleaning dried crusty food off the white porcelain tomorrow morning. I put all of my muscle into drying the pan I just hand-washed. I give the kitchen all of my attention, ignoring the pull that’s beckoning me to where Mack is.
Stupid magnetic hearts.
I’m lost in the silence of the room, making sure everything that’ll hold still is scrubbed down, and don’t hear him enter the kitchen. I don’t hear it, but I definitely feel it. When our eyes meet, that electrical pull is back. I’m the one who has to look away again, to break the connection. When I do, I find the baby monitor in his hand.
“I was going to go back out and work in the garage,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I thought maybe you’d like to come out with me.” I sense the unspoken words instantly. Like you used to. Like I used to when we were together, and he’d work on his race car in the shop at the track. I’d sit on a stool and watch, occasionally handing him a tool.
Tossing the dishcloth in the sink, I wipe my hands on my jean shorts and follow him out the back door. We move in silence through the night to the garage where he thinks. I’m still not sure exactly why he invited me to join him, but to be honest, it beats sitting in my room alone and trying to read. Trying, being the key word there, because I know exactly where my attention would be, and it wouldn’t be on the book.
An old Alan Jackson song is playing, a cooler night breeze blowing through the open garage door bay. I find a stool off to the side, as if it were put there specifically for me, by the hood of the truck. Before I take a seat, a thought hits me. “I’ll be right back,” I state before turning and heading back to the house.
Inside, I find my camera bag with the old film device. I whip the strap over my neck, stopping at the fridge to grab two bottles of beer and the plastic container of cookies on the counter. With my loot juggled in my arms, I return to the garage.
Mack is already working under the hood, the smell of grease and gasoline filling the air. It’s familiar and comforting. It reminds me of home. I take both beer bottles and wrap a shop towel around them and pop open the tops. The first one I set beside his portable tool bench, right by where he’s working. He glances up and sees what I have, a smile spreading across his totally kissable lips.
I tamp down that image and go back to my seat, to where my own beer is waiting. While I make myself comfortable, I pull out my trusty Nikon and shoot a quick picture. Mack is leaning over the grill, standing on a crate, and making an adjustment to the motor. When he hears the familiar click of the shutter, he looks my way, a smudge of dirt across his forehead. Since the camera’s already poised by my eye, I go ahead and snap another one, this time with him looking at me.
The moment I set the camera on my lap, he shakes his head, the faintest smile on his lips. “You and that camera.”
“I’m on my second roll of film,” I tell him, knowing he’ll understand what I mean.
He reaches down and grabs a wrench, turning it against the motor.