Maybe it’s just a last good-bye to this garage where I spent so many hours with Dad. With my art. Maybe it’s leaving my project unfinished.
In the past week, I’ve kept busy. I finished work on the CC garden job, packed for the trip, hung out with Coop and Tucker every night. And worked on my project.
My legs take me to the welding table. I slide fingers over the metal top. Rough, stained, and dinged up. Kind of like me.
After Mai and I ended five days ago, I grabbed the towel to cover the project, and then… I couldn’t do it. The metal felt cool in my hands, but also there was a warmth beneath. A life inside pulsing like a heart. I thought about Mai. How she looked at it. Talked about it. Like there was something good in it.
She was right about me and my art. I was afraid to commit. It was easier to hide it away than work on it and find out if I was any good. I didn’t want to care about it—or anything. Then Mai cracked open my heart. Maybe this would be one good thing to come from all of it.
Sunday night, when I couldn’t sleep, I came out here. I’d held on to the base and felt the gears inside me start to move. What if I did work at it? Not for her. Not for Mom. For myself.
Instead of grabbing the soldering iron, I’d gone inside for paper and pen. I’d started planning out the piece. As always, Dad was in the back of my mind, thoughts of him drifting along with me. That gave me an idea. What if I attached a few of Dad’s old bandannas to the sculpture? Gave it a sense of movement? I’d sketched for hours. That was all Mai. Getting me to think ahead. Plan ahead.
Except she got me believing in a future, and then she walked out of it.
I check my phone again. Six fifteen p.m. Who am I kidding? I’m not checking the time. I know exactly what I’m waiting for.
Mai.
Do I really think the phone is going to start ringing? Do I think Mai is going to magically appear? I’ll turn to the open garage door and there she’ll be, her eyes full of tears, her breath coming fast like she’s run the whole way to get to me. Those soft lips parting on the words I’ve been waiting to hear.
I love you, Anthony.
Yeah, that’s the bullshit I have running through my head.
My finger hits a rough edge on the metal. Pain flares, and a line of red grows on the tip of my middle finger. Great. More blood bubbles up—I’ve cut myself deeper than I thought. Nothing too bad but another scar to add to my already scarred hands. An image fills my mind. Mai’s hands holding mine. Here, in the garage.
Enough. I’m out of here. No more wanting what I’ll never have.
The house feels blessedly cool. It smells like vanilla in the kitchen, and when I see the mixing bowl in the sink, I know Mom’s been making pudding. Comfort food.
Dad’s urn is on the counter. Mom’s been acting weird about my taking him, but she hasn’t come out and said no. She’s made me promise I won’t spill any ashes until I talk to her. I wonder where she is now. It’s time to say good-bye.
I run the water and fill my palm with dish soap. I’ve washed up, and I’m studying the cut when Mom walks in.
“What happened?”
“Just a cut.”
“Let me see.” She takes my hand, and heat gathers unexpected and hot behind my eyes.
She watches me, worry deepening the lines around her mouth.
“It’s just a cut.”
“Tell me what’s going on, Anthony.”
“Nothing. My finger hurts. I cut it on my project. It was a careless mistake.”
“It was,” she says. “But why do I think ‘mistake’ is referring to something else?”
I lean against the counter, let my head hang. “Please, Mom. Not now. I’m leaving in a few minutes.”
She trails her hand down my forearm. My instinct is to pull away from everything, but I can’t pull away from her. “Which is why it has to be now,” she says. “Is this about the girl?”
“There is no girl.”
“Anthony.” She lets out a breath. “It’s the same girl, isn’t it? The one from spring.”
Surprised, I look up. “How do you know that?”
“Because she had you twisted up like a Bavarian pretzel then, too.”
I lean against the counter, a wry smile pushing its way up. Not a bad description. “Yeah. It’s the same girl.”
“And?” She moves around the counter to the cabinet where she keeps the first aid kit. She’s back with the antiseptic spray and a gauze cloth. “And?” she repeats.
“It’s the same as the spring,” I say as she shakes the spray. “I’m not who she sees herself with.”
“Then why did you get back together?”
“Like I said, a mistake.”
A burst of cold antiseptic hits my finger. Feels good. With the gauze, she catches the excess, gently patting my skin. “I don’t care if it does make me a wimp. I’m never going to be too old to have my mom fix my owies.”
“I’m glad.” She unwraps a Band Aid and sets it over the cut. “But you should probably stop calling them owies.” She smiles up at me. “All better?” she asks, the way she did when I was little.
“All better.”
She tosses out the gauze and the wrapper. “I understand why you got back together with her. I could see how much you liked her. But she must like you just as much to go down that road again.”
I groan. “Can we leave it, Mom? You hate this girl, remember?”
“I know. But I haven’t seen you open your heart to a girl—to anyone—since your dad died.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not true. My heart is wide open to you and Troy.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Yeah. I do.” I know how much she wants to believe in true love and happily-ever-afters. But not every story ends that way. “She’s made her choice, Mom. I’m making mine.” I pull her in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you, you know that? I’ll worry with you on your own. You sure you’re going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine, too. I’ll be with Dad.” I wrap a hand around the urn. “It seems wrong that all of him fits into something so little. He shouldn’t be contained in a box.”
“He isn’t,” she says. “He’s alive in a million different ways because he’s alive in me, you, and Troy.” She sighs. “He’ll live on with us, but only if we keep living.”