We finish our sandwiches, but this time, I force Atticus to let me clean up. He takes my seat and watches me, but the conversation never lulls.
“You never answered my question,” I remind him as I drag a tea towel around the edge of a freshly washed plate. “What made you want to be a mechanic?”
He scratches at the center of his chest. “I always liked working on stuff. There’s something rewarding about knowing how to take something apart and put it back together. ‘Specially something like an engine.”
I nod. “That’s cool. Having such a unique and in-demand skill. It must feel good.”
He snorts a little, still scratching at his chest while his other hand raises his water glass to his mouth. “Well,” he ponders a minute before taking a drink. “I guess that’s all true. I just been doin’ it so long, and I like it that I never really think about it.”
“You’re just living the dream,” I say teasingly but also truthfully because that’s what it sounds like… it sounds like he loves what he does and gets to live that dream daily. I’m jealous but irrationally proud, too, even though I have no claim to his success or a reason to be proud. I am, though. And I’m happy for him much more than I am jealous. “I want that,” I admit quietly. “Tohavejust what I want.”
“Everybody does. You ain’t alone in wanting to be happy, Goldie.”
I turn to him after stacking the clean plates and turning the drying cups upside down on the tea towel. “I’m so full, and it’s so cold. You wanna just watch a movie?”
“You see that selection of movies?”
“VHS,” I add with a grin, “and yes, I did.”
“I think I’ll just read.”
I don’t care if he watches the movie or not, but being in the same space with him is something I’m growing attached to. And truthfully, I don’t want this weekend to end.
“Great,” I say with a massive smile that I really only partially feel because we’re leaving in the morning. And the day is bleeding into afternoon. I didn’t think I’d want to be here just the two of us, and now I’m praying for time to slow down.
A few minutes later, Atticus is settled into one side of the couch, his massive legs crossed at the ankle resting on the table. He’s holding a book with his thumb and forefinger; his other arm draped along the back of the couch.
He’s got a stoic expression, and he doesn’t even give me a glance as I start the movie, get the wine and two glasses and grab a blanket from the back of the couch. It’s like my presence does nothing to him, and he does everything to me.
That makes me feel a little bad if I’m being honest because even though Atti doesn’t treat me like my ex Reynold did, the feeling of being invisible is there regardless. I hate that feeling.
“Wine?” I ask as I’m uncorking, the opening credits to some old Clint Eastwood movie rolling.
He peeks at me with just one eye. “Guess I better. Can’t let you drink it all. We know how that ends up.”
“Har har, grandpa,” I deadpan, “I’ll be fine. Do you want any or not?”
“I said yes.”
“You said it with snark.”
“I did not.”
“Did, too.”
The tiniest smirk lifts his lips, and I set the wine bottle down and tap his thigh with the back of my hand. “That wasn’t another smile, was it?”
He returns to his book with a grunt, but I keep my smile for the next few minutes as I snuggle into the couch, sip my wine, and get lost in Eastwood.
An hour later, I’ve finished two glasses and am growing a bit groggy, but I refuse to have my remaining time with Atti spent taking a nap.
But the fire is so warm. The smell of toasted bread still hangs in the air, and as much as I wanted to escape it at home, I love it here.
I’ll just close my eyes for a second. Though the last thought I have before drifting off is, has anyone ever just closed their eyes for a second?
Probably not.
ten