“I’ve been driving since I was fifteen,” Mark said. “My grandpa taught me in his old Ford. Up at the lake, on the dirt roads. I stalled it about forty times.”
“I know,” I said. “You’ve told me.”
“Have I?”
“Lots of times.”
He was quiet for a second.
“Guess I’ll be telling you lots more,” he said.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I like that story.”
That night, he gave me the keys to his truck. He put them in my hand the same way he’d put his wedding ring in my hand twelve years ago.
“I’m sorry, Lee,” he said. “I just can’t.”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “It’s just a truck. I know you’re you. You know you’re you. That’s what matters.”
I called Carol the next week.
When she heard my voice, she was quiet for a second. Then she said, “Well. Did you find what you were looking for, hon?”
