Page 36 of Truck You

It’s something I used to do all the time before the accident. I stopped because every time a car rubbed another one, I tensed up. It fed my anxiety.

But this morning it’s been helpful. I feel better about my upcoming race. I even have a strategy in mind to help me win. There isn’t a driver entered that I haven’t beaten before. I know their weaknesses and their strengths.

I’m ready for this. I can do this. No amount of anxiety can keep me from winning.

I turn off the TV and toss the remote on my bed. This helped. A lot. Maybe if I do this a little every day—like I used to when I was at the top of my game—I’ll be ready by race day.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me it’s time to grab something for lunch. Checking the time, it’s later than I realized.

When I reach the kitchen, I only find my dad and Grams sitting around the table. Dad’s reading the paper like he always does, and Grams is peeling potatoes.

“There you are.” Grams looks up at me and smiles. “I was about to hunt you down. It’s not like you to miss a meal.”

“Sorry, Grams.” I kiss the top of her head. “Watching old racing footage and lost track of time.”

She gives me a knowing nod of approval. I might like to think no one knows my head is a little fucked up from the accident, but everyone’s noticed my change in habits. I’m just in denial.

“I made you a sandwich. It’s in the fridge.” I smile, loving that she didn’t say anything about me watching races. With Grams, we don’t always need words.

“You didn’t have to do that.” I open the fridge and pull out the sandwich wrapped up on a small plate.

“Of course I did. I always feed my boys,” Grams tsks with a hint of annoyance. It makes me chuckle. She loves cooking and will feed anyone who gets within eyesight of our house like it’s her job.

I set the plate down on the opposite side of the table, grab myself something to drink and a bag of chips from the pantry before I take my seat.

I eat in silence, feeling Grams’ eyes on me. When I glance up, she’s watching me. Her expression is serious and knowing.

“What?” I ask, even though I know I’m going to regret it.

She continues peeling the potato in her hands before she speaks. “I really like Sophia. She’s a delightful addition to the garage. Smart, strong girl. Kind of badass if you ask me.”

I keep my head down so she can’t see the way my lips turn up at how she called Sophia a badass. Grams has never shied away from cursing. She’s sweet as pie ninety-nine percent of the time, but when she wants to make sure her point is known, it’s hard to tell what will come out of her mouth.

“When didyoumeet Sophia?” I know damn well Grams met Sophia at the Apple Festival. Sophia may not be eating her lunch with us in the house, but I know that Grams has been making her lunch every day just like she makes ours and having it delivered to her in the garage.

When Grams doesn’t answer me, I glance up at her. She’s giving me one of her knowing stares. “So that’s how you’re going to play it, huh?”

“Play what?” I frown.

But Grams doesn’t get a chance to answer because there’s a knock at the door. I wipe my face with my napkin and push up from my chair. “I’ll get it.”

“We’re not done talking about this,” she says as I walk away. I glance over my shoulder to catch her smiling at me.

Grams is way too perceptive and way too eager to see her grandsons settle down. She only had one son, and to say Dad is a disappointment to Grams when it comes to women is an understatement. His choice in women is largely why all of us have remained single for so long.

Whoever is at the door knocks again before I reach it.

“I’m coming!” I call out.

We don’t get many visitors at the house. People drive out here for the garage, not to socialize with Dad and Grams. That’s what the new community center in town is for.

A few years ago, the local school district won a huge grant from the state to build a new school complex. The new complex combined three smaller schools into one. Once it was complete, they tore down the old high school, but the elementary schools are now community centers that offer arts and craft fairs, workshops, bingo, and other activities for the elderly in our community. Grams goes there at least twice a week to hang out with her knitting friends.

I swing the front door open and frown. I’m greeted by a tall woman with long dark hair with streaks of silver throughout. She’s dressed in clean, crisp jeans and a black leather jacket. The hard wrinkles on her face suggest she’s close to my dad’s age. But it’s her piercing blue eyes that cause me to pause. There’s something oddly familiar about this woman, but I can’t pinpoint what.

“Mac,” she whispers my name.

I narrow my eyes, studying her face. I’m almost positive I’ve never seen this woman before, but she’s looking at me with tear-filled eyes like she knows who I am.

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