went quiet.
The 1967 Pontiac GTO. Cherry red. Numbers matching. The summer I was seventeen, Dad and I rebuilt the engine in the garage. Ninety-two degree heat. Rust everywhere. His hands guiding mine. The only summer he ever looked at me like I belonged somewhere.
Emily set down her wine. “Sold it last year.”
I blinked. “Sold it?”
Mom dabbed her mouth.continue reading …
