Real.
When we separated, she whispered:
“That was worth missing Marino’s.”
I smiled.
“Barely.”
She hit my arm.
We kissed again.
Dating someone connected to your dead father in a way you are still learning to accept is not simple.
Some days I looked at her and saw her.
Other days, I saw years I had lost.
That was not fair.
I told her when it happened.
Eventually.
The first time came after she mentioned my father teaching her to rebuild a carburetor.
We were in my shop.
I froze.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
She put down the part.
“Say it.”
I hated that she had learned me.
“He taught you.”
“Yes.”
“He never taught me.”
Her face changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don't apologize.”
“You sound angry.”
“I am.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“Feels like it.”
That was fair.
I sat on the workbench.
“I’m jealous.”
The word tasted childish.
She did not mock me.
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
“You shouldn't have to.”
“No.”
“But I do.”
She leaned against the truck.
“Sometimes I'm jealous of you too.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“You had him before he broke himself.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That version wasn't good.”
“Not always.”
“But he was yours.”
Her eyes filled.
“I spent years wondering whether I had a right to call him Dad because somewhere there might be a family who would say I stole something.”
I stared.
“You didn't.”
“I know that now.”
“You didn't.”
I said it again because she needed it.
“He chose to be there for you.”
“That failure belongs to him.”
“Not you.”
She nodded.
Then:
“And what he missed with you belongs to him too.”
We stood quietly.
Finally I held out a carburetor.
“Teach me what he taught you.”
She laughed.
“You're the mechanic.”
“Apparently I missed this lesson.”
She came closer.
We worked side by side.
At one point our hands touched inside the engine bay.
She smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I knew that smile.
It meant something.
“What?”
“He used to say you could tell whether someone trusted you by whether they let your hands work near theirs without watching.”
I stopped.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
I looked at our hands.
Then at her.
“I'm watching.”
“You have issues.”
“Many.”
She kissed my cheek.
“Progress.”
My daughter accepted the relationship before I did.
One afternoon I found her drawing at the kitchen table.
Three people.