Chapter 14
Luke
My driver talked nonstop on the way to Sheridan’s, but I couldn’t pay attention. My thoughts were shouting.
If the toaster is chrome, I will not shriek like a child. If there are those landscape pastel paintings on the wall, I won’t flip my lid. I’m just going to play it cool.
Nothing about me was cool. Not since the accident.
She met me at the driveway, looking like a blue-collar dream come true in a pair of fitted, curve-hugging jeans and a button-up shirt, a man’s size, tied at the navel. Her hair was tied up, but a few auburn tendrils fell at her neck. There was a smudge of grease on her cheek.
Turned out, this was where I had to keep myself from shrieking like a child. Or a teenage boy at his dream come true.
“Where’s your car?” I piled out of the Uber, staying as chill as possible, my arms full of the box of supplies and tools I’d need to change Sheridan Chandler’s oil in her … holy mackerel. What was that? “You have a Ford Bronco?” Only the most boss vehicle ever created by Detroit.
“It’s my husband’s.”
H-h-husband? Just a cotton-picking … “Your late husband.” I caught myself. Ever since the concussion, facts seemed to slip out of my brain a lot more quickly than they used to. Important facts.
So, fine. It was probably a good thing the hospital kept kicking me out every time I showed up and tried to sneak in the back door to reclaim my life.
The only non-terrible visit I’d had was the other morning, and I’d spent it with Dr. Cook. Never would’ve expected myself to think that chain of phrases three weeks ago.
Cook. Not the worst guy, surprisingly. But I hadn’t told him what was going on with me. Not yet. I still might. It’d be really good to have someone to confide in besides my sister.
I might end up confiding in Sheridan if I don’t tell someone else soon.
Actually, how bad would that be?
Fine. Bad. So bad she’d probably initiate proceedings for having me committed.
And who could blame her?
“Didn’t you say one o’clock? I kind of thought you forgot.”
As if I had other things to do these days.
“Took a while at AutoPoint. Their registers were down. Your oil change is important to me.” Did that sound cheesy? Or dirty? I was losing this game. I could forget her husband had died, but not that she agreed to let me change the oil in his car. “What year is the Bronco?” As if I didn’t know. It was a 1984 or I was no expert.
“It’s an eighty-three.”
So, I was no expert.
How could I be off by a model year? My brain had definitely been damaged. “Original paint. Looks good.”
“It needs to get driven by someone who loves it.”
Oh. “Was your husband the original owner?” Like, could he have been a lot older than she was, and that’s why he was dead? “Maybe I should admit right here and now I’m a big fan of the early eighties Broncos. Not the football team so much. The trucks.”
“He bought it after high school. He liked riding up high. For the view.” She said the word view like it had four letters.
Which it did. “I’ll get started.”
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“All kinds of help, but not with the oil change.” To be blunt.
“Then I’ll bring you a lemonade in a few.”