“As long as she made you happy. That’s all I want, Logan, your happiness.” Mom’s gaze becomes far-off as she looks over my shoulder. “I want his happiness, too.”

She’s watching Dad. He’s in our garage with the hood up on his truck.

“I did him wrong and I regret it,” she says. “Be careful of whose hearts you play with, including your own, there’s some damage that doesn’t heal.”

A lot like the hole that will be left in my heart when Abby leaves.

She blinks then smiles like she didn’t just say something deep. “You’re going to stay with me when you go to school in Louisville, right? Don’t be stubborn and make the thirty-minute drive here.”

“I’ll stay with you some.” And I’ll also drive home to Dad’s. I love my mom, but I also like real food.

“Good. While you’re staying with me this year, I think I’ll be taking a man hiatus. Sort of like a cleanse. I think it’s time I figure out who I am without one.” She explains this all with a smile on her face, but there’s hurt in her eyes.

“Don’t have to do it on my account.”

The smile wanes. “I’m doing it for me. I’m tired of being alone. Even with someone in my bed, I’m tired of being alone.”

Not sure what to say to that, I hug my mother, long and hard. She kisses my cheek, and without another word, slips into her car and drives off. Her red taillights disappear around the long winding curve of our gravel drive.

Exhaustion from the past few days weighs me down, but I head to the garage regardless. Dad’s got a wrench and he’s doing something to his carburetor. We’ve spent countless hours in here since I was a kid after Mom left. We fixed cars, refrigerators, window units, washing machines, and even took a crack at a broken iPod.

At work he makes things. Out here he fixes things. Never buys new. Keeps things running longer than their expected shelf life, maybe even when it’s time to give up. He tried to make a life for him and my mom and it didn’t work. He couldn’t fix her. He couldn’t fix me. Maybe it’s time to fix himself.

“Mom says she’s taking a guy hiatus when I start school,” I say.

Dad’s eyes flicker to me from the belly of his truck. “That should be interesting.”

“Maybe you should do the opposite.” I rub the back of my head, unsure of how this will go.

The cranking of the wrench stops. “What?”

“Maybe you should...” Damn, bad idea. This is as comfortable as eating nails. “...date.”

Dad stares at me, motionless for a few seconds, then returns his attention to his truck. “Date?”

“Yeah. From the stories Mom tells you were capable of it once along with a few other things.”

“Your mother brought that out in me.”

“And maybe somebody else can, too.”

The wrenching stops again and then he continues, “You were in love with her? This Abby?”

I nod and then realize he doesn’t see it so I say, “Yeah.”

He straightens then goes to the workbench, cleaning then putting away his tools. “Not sure how I would have felt about you dating a drug dealer.”

“Not sure you would have had a choice.”

“A lot of that going around with you.” Dad leans his back against his bench and stares at his truck. “You’re wrong. I’m not ashamed of you.”

I don’t respond because he’s always been on me to be responsible and I get some of what he has to say, but the adrenaline junkie in me, it’s part of who I am, just like the diabetes.

“And you were right. Not knowing what you want to do doesn’t mean you don’t know who you are. I just worry about you. Hate to see you hurt.”

“You were right with me and taking care of the diabetes. I’m done with ignoring the diabetes, but the adrenaline stuff—I can’t promise that’s going to change. You worrying? Maybe you need to start focusing less on me and more on you.”

Dad nods because we’re both reaching our conversational and emotional limits for the night.

“I’m too old for dating.” But he didn’t say it like he meant it. He said it in the same tone he uses when discussing Mom’s cooking. The type where he still eats the meatless ball.

Next to Dad’s old truck is my grandfather’s 1950s Chevy that led me to Isaiah, who led me to Abby. Ever since I was in a car accident last spring with Isaiah, I haven’t touched the car. Seeing the disappointment in Dad’s eyes as I once again screwed up in my hunt for an adrenaline rush has kept me from getting behind the wheel.

It’s a beautiful car. Deserves more than a dusty garage.

Maybe Dad needs more than a date. Maybe Dad needs to remember how to live.

I dig for my keys in my pocket. “There’s this flat stretch of road between here and Chris’s where I’ve heard people can catch some awesome speed. I think we should try it. Me driving.”

I leave out I’ve already driven there and won more than a few drag races.

“Air conditioner has been making some weird sounds—”

“I’ll consider the pump if you come with me.”

That shuts Dad up.

I jack my thumb to the car and Dad starts for the passenger side. “Not too fast.”

I open the driver’s side and slide in. “Fast, Dad. We’re going fast.”

Abby