I squint my own at him and scrunch my nose. I hate how well he knows me. He’s a virtual stranger to me, only knowing the bits of me that no longer exist, and yet he gets me. Maybe I haven’t changed as much as I thought I did.
“Come on, honey. Go home with him,” the woman in the waiting room says.
I turn to her and see she’s staring at us like we’re her favorite soap opera playing out in live theater.
She shoos me with her hand. “There are worse things that can happen in this life than spending a few days with a man who has Rob Lowe eyes.”
I point to Zack. “He does not have Rob Lowe eyes.”
She nods her head. “He does. And a smile like George Clooney. You’re very handsome.”
I turn toward Zack, who’s blushing. The fucker is eating this up.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says to her and then turns to me with a cheeky grin. “Come on, Chicken Charlie. Looks like you have a date with a ’90s heartthrob in the small town you grew up in.”
I roll my eyes at him. “For the record, I’m only going because I have nowhere else to go.”
He lifts my suitcase and takes my hand, pulling me out of the office. “You’re overthinking it. It’s the same place you grew up. Nothing’s really changed.”
I sigh. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”
The ride to Dixon is pretty quiet. Zack keeps the radio on a country station, something I haven’t listened to in years. Country isn’t the most popular genre in New York, and when I’m traveling, I have my own playlists. Right now, I should be listening to Édith Piaf. Damn the fog, and now, damn my busted eardrum.
“Nervous?” Zack asks from the driver’s side.
I follow his gaze to my knee that’s bouncing.
“Cold,” I lie and pull my coat around me and bite on my thumbnail.
He side-eyes me with a sarcastic grin. The farther we get from San Francisco, the hotter it gets. I lower my hand and change the subject.
“So, what do you do in Dixon two days a week?”
“I help my dad in the auto body shop. He has staff now, but with his Parkinson’s, he’s unable to be as hands-on as he likes. It frustrates him, so I come in to be his hands when he’s trying to show the guys what they need to do.”
“How is he?”
His chest rises, and he lets out a deep, audible breath. “He’s okay. His mind is as sharp as a tack, but his body is taking on a life of its own. He comes into San Francisco to see the best doctors and is on medication. Only thing we can hope is to prolong the next phase of symptoms as long as possible. So far, he’s doing okay.”
“Okay is good.”
“No. It’s bullshit. I hate seeing my dad slowly lose himself.”
I nod even though I don’t truly understand. My parents never suffered. They were killed on impact. I never had a chance to worry about them fading before my eyes. I left for school one day, and before I returned, tragedy had already struck.
“What time do you need to be at the shop?” I ask.
“Nine,” he says and sits up straighter.
“Zack! That was hours ago.”
“First time I’ve ever been late.”
I run a hand over my face. One day back in his life, and I’m already messing things up. “You didn’t have to bring me to the doctor.”
“Yes, I did,” he states firmly. “You’re injured.”
And there lies the thing that motivates Zack. He’s a natural caregiver. He was when we were thirteen, and he found a kitten on the street. He brought Mr. Jenkins home and nursed him with a thimble of milk. I always loved that about him.
Zack’s hand runs over his chest. He’s worried, and I know why.
“It’s putting a knot in your chest that you’re late, isn’t it?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder, but I know it’s eating him up inside, no matter how much he tries to deny it. He hates letting anyone down, no matter what the reason.
We sit in silence again, listening to Miranda Lambert sing about the house that built her. I want to laugh at the irony.
“Why is going home such a big deal?” Zack finally asks as we cross through Vallejo, getting closer to our destination.
“You’ll never get it,” I whisper under my breath.
“Then, try to explain it to me.”
I sigh as I look out the widow, ignoring his question. “How long will we be in town?”
“I normally spend all day Monday and Tuesday and then drive back Wednesday morning.”
My body spins so fast that my hair gets caught on my lip gloss. “We’ll be here for two days?”
“Are you in a rush to go somewhere?”
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, and then something dawns on me. The man lives in an office above his bar. The odds of him owning a house in Dixon where he only sleeps two nights a week are pretty slim. “Are we staying at your parents’ house?”
“Yep.”
I inhale a deep breath. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”
He turns to me with a pointed glare. “It’s going to be just fine. You know my dad always liked you.”
“It’s not your dad I’m worried about,” I say, biting my lip.
“Yeah, my mom used to hate you.”
I don’t even have a witty rebuttal. It’s the truth. Sandra Hunt has disliked me since the day her son got caught cutting class with me. Never date a guy who’s an only child and his mother thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread.
“You might want to show up with a pie or something,” he says seriously.
“Is this amusing to you?” I give him a shove in the arm, and he releases a smile. “She never thought I was good enough for you. I can only imagine how much she hated me after I …” I pause as the lingering words leave the space between us empty.
Zack grips the steering wheel. It’s probably not best to have this conversation in the car while he’s driving on a freeway that has so many people on the road.
“Does she even know I’m coming?”
“No, not yet. I didn’t think you were until we left the airport doctor. I didn’t want to send it in a text because I knew she’d call.”
“Yeah, to tell me I’m not welcome.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sure she’s moved on by now. I’ve brought other women into her life. She’s not only worried about you.”
Our eyes meet for a second before he stares back at the road. There’s more conversation to be had than just why I left. Maybe the worst part of going back to Dixon is because we’ll have to confront those ghosts. Being back home, where we were an us, will bring everything back.
I’m not sure I’m ready.
We exit at West A Street, and I take a deep inhale. “Well, I can see nothing’s changed here.”
I glance around at the land that’s been tilled for the next planting and the old Mexican restaurant we ate at when we were little that shut down twenty years ago and still sits empty with the dirt parking lot surrounding it.
Going from San Francisco to Dixon can be a culture shock. Though it’s only a little over an hour away on Interstate 80, it’s night and day in terms of population, demographics, and landscapes.