“Caleb.”
“She was stranded.”
“She could afford a Camaro.”
“So?”
He stared at me.
Then laughed.
“One day, somebody's going to walk into this place and pay you a million dollars just to prove the universe still believes in balance.”
I grinned.
“Let me know when you see that person.”
He returned to his work.
I picked up my tools.
And by noon, I was so busy that I almost forgot about the woman with the Camaro.
Almost.
Because every time the front door opened, part of me looked up.
And every time it wasn't her, I felt an unreasonable flicker of disappointment.
I told myself I was being ridiculous.
I was a thirty-six-year-old single father.
I had bills.
Responsibilities.
A daughter who needed me.
A garage that needed constant attention.
I had no reason to become distracted by a woman I'd spoken to for ten minutes.
But that evening, while Lily and I sat at the kitchen table eating grilled cheese sandwiches, my daughter looked at me suspiciously.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, peanut?”
“Why are you smiling?”
I blinked.
“Am I?”
She nodded.
“Like this.”
She exaggerated an enormous grin.
I laughed.
“That's a frightening impression.”
She giggled.
Then leaned closer.
“Did something good happen?”
I considered the question.
“Maybe.”
Her eyes widened.
“Did you fix the red Mustang?”
“Not yet.”
“Did Marcus finally stop complaining?”
I laughed harder.
“Absolutely not.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Then what?”
I shook my head.
“Just had a nice morning.”
Lily considered that.
Then smiled.
“Good.”
She took another bite of her sandwich.
And I realized how long it had been since my daughter had seen me come home happy about something unrelated to work.
That realization stayed with me long after she went upstairs.
It frightened me a little.
Because happiness had begun to feel like something I owed an explanation for.
After Hannah died, I had become very good at surviving.
I managed the house.
Ran the garage.
Paid the bills.
Attended school conferences.
Remembered appointments.