Four minutes late. I’d driven as fast as I legally could, squeaking around every left turn. Georgia laughed at every squeak.
When we pulled into the driveway, the porch light was on. Through the front window, I saw the blue glow of the TV.
“He fell asleep,” she said. “On the couch. He always does.”
“Should I come in and tell him we’re home?”
“No,” she said. “Let him sleep. He’ll pretend he was awake the whole time anyway.”
“Brent?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For tonight. For not being weird about any of it. And for the napkin.” ShopKitchenware
“Anytime,” I said.
“Your hands are covered in grease, you know.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said.
She laughed and got out and went up the front steps. At the door, she turned around and waved. She went inside.
I sat in the driveway briefly, listening to the engine tick. The radio was off for once.
