Chapter Seventeen

The old blue pickup truck hadn't moved in nearly four years.

It sat in the Elsher garage beneath a faded canvas cover, collecting dust and memories in equal measure.

Simon had bought it long before Max was born.

It wasn't beautiful.

The paint had faded from years beneath the summer sun.

The driver's seat had a tear held together with duct tape.

The radio only worked if someone smacked the dashboard twice.

And second gear had always complained louder than everyone else.

Simon used to joke that the truck had more personality than most people.

After he died...

No one touched it.

Not because it couldn't be repaired.

Because no one had the heart.

----------------------

Saturday morning arrived bright and warm.

Nate wandered into the garage carrying a mug of coffee.

He stopped in front of the covered truck.

"...You look worse than I remember."

The truck, unsurprisingly, offered no reply.

He smiled anyway.

Simon would have.

Nate ran a hand across the dusty hood, leaving a clean streak through years of neglect.

"You deserved better."

Behind him, footsteps echoed across the concrete.

"You talking to the truck?"

Nate looked over his shoulder.

Max stood in the doorway wearing old jeans and a hoodie that had clearly seen better days.

"I might be."

"That's weird."

"I'm aware."

Max stepped inside.

"What are you doing?"

"I honestly don't know."

Nate looked back at the engine.

"I just..." He shrugged. "...miss him."

Max's eyes drifted toward the truck.

"So do I."

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Nate reached for the dusty cover and pulled it away.

Dust exploded into the air.

Both of them coughed.

"Well," Nate laughed. "That's dramatic."

----------------------

The truck looked exactly like Nate remembered.

Old.

Reliable.

Neglected.

He popped the hood open.

"Think it'll start?"

Max asked.

"Not a chance."

"You sound confident."

"I'd bet my medical degree."

"You don't have one yet."

"Semantics."

Max rolled his eyes.

"So... What now?"

"We see what's broken."

Max frowned.

"How?"

Nate smiled.

"The scientific method."

"Poke it until something makes sense?"

"I'm pretty sure that's not science."

"It's garage science... Different discipline."

----------------------

By lunchtime, the garage floor had disappeared beneath scattered tools.

Nate had grease on both hands.

Max somehow had grease on his face.

Neither knew how.

"I think you're holding the wrench backwards."

"I don't think that's possible."

"It definitely is."

"It literally isn't."

Max turned the wrench around.

"...Oh."

Nate raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"I hate you."

"So I've heard."

"You were waiting for me to figure that out."

"Absolutely."

"You're evil."

"I've been called worse."

----------------------

The truck still refused to start.

"You sure you're almost a doctor?"

"I'm beginning to think engines are more complicated than people."

"I don't think mechanics would appreciate hearing that."

"They already don't."

Max laughed.

It was becoming easier.

More natural.

Neither of them noticed anymore.

----------------------

The next morning...

Max woke before everyone else.

He wandered downstairs.

The kitchen was empty.

The living room was empty.

He frowned.

Then, almost automatically...

He walked toward the garage.

Sure enough—

Nate was already there.

This time he was sitting on an overturned bucket reading the truck's repair manual.

"You know..."

Nate said without looking up.

"...you're getting predictable."

"I am not."

"You've followed me out here two mornings in a row."

"I just..."

Max looked around awkwardly.

"...like the garage."

"Mhm."

"The truck's cool."

"Mhm."

"And you're making coffee."

"There it is."

Max grinned sheepishly.

"I was mostly here for the coffee."

Nate stood up and walked to the coffeemaker he had moved to the garage sometime the day before and poured him a mug.

"I figured."

----------------------

It became their place.

Every morning.

Coffee.

Tools.

Old country music playing softly through a battered portable radio they somehow coaxed back to life.

Sometimes they worked.

Sometimes they simply sat in comfortable silence.

The silence surprised Nate most.

A few weeks earlier, silence between them had felt like a battlefield.

Now...

It felt peaceful.

Like neither of them needed to fill every empty space with words.

----------------------

One afternoon, as they changed the truck's oil, Nate noticed Max rubbing absentmindedly at the inside of his wrist.

The habit had appeared whenever he was anxious.

"You okay?"

Max shrugged.

"I guess."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I've just..." He hesitated. "...been thinking."

"Dangerous hobby."

"Shut up."

Max smiled faintly.

"I keep thinking maybe..." He stared at the oil pan beneath the truck. "...I'm the only person who feels like this."

Nate set his wrench aside.

"No."

"I know logically I'm not."

"But..."

"It feels like it."

Nate leaned against the truck.

"Can I tell you something?"

Max nodded.

"When I was in my second year of medical school... I thought I was handling everything. My classes, my relationship, my grief. I was functioning, so everyone assumed I was fine."

"Were you?"

"No."

"I ended up talking to one of the university counsellors."

Max looked surprised.

"You?"

"I was having panic attacks."

"You never told anyone?"

"I didn't talk to many people but Micah knew... He talked me into getting help"

"Were you embarrassed?"

"A little."

"But mostly..." He smiled. "...I was tired... Tired of pretending."

Max looked thoughtfully at the floor.

"Did it help?"

"It didn't fix everything, but it reminded me I wasn't carrying everything alone."

Another silence settled.

This one thoughtful.

Not uncomfortable.

Nate picked up a rag and wiped the grease from his hands.

"You know..."

"The community centre runs a grief support group every Thursday."

Max's head lifted immediately.

"No."

"I wasn't saying you have to go."

"I'm definitely not going."

"Okay."

"They'll think I'm crazy."

"They won't."

"They'll stare."

"They probably won't."

"I don't want strangers knowing my problems."

"They already have their own."

Max looked unconvinced.

Nate didn't push.

He simply returned to tightening a bolt.

A few minutes later—

"I'll think about it."

Nate smiled to himself.

"That's all I'm asking."

----------------------

That evening...

Nate sat alone on the back porch.

His phone rested in his hand.

The screen displayed a familiar name.

Eric

He hadn't deleted the number.

He'd tried.

Several times.

He just... Couldn't.

His thumb hovered over the contact.

He wondered what Eric was doing.

Whether he'd already moved on.

Whether he'd ever regretted what happened.

Whether...

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You gonna call him?"

Max stood in the doorway holding two cans of soda.

Nate sighed.

"I don't know."

Max walked over and handed him one.

"My opinion?"

"Hm?"

"Don't."

Nate laughed quietly.

"Very insightful."

"I'm serious."

"If talking to him is going to rip the stitches back open..." Max sat beside him. "...maybe leave the wound alone."

Nate looked at him.

"When did you get so wise?"

"I had a good teacher."

The words settled warmly between them.

Nate smiled and looked back at the glowing screen.

Without another moment of hesitation...

He opened the contact.

Not to call.

To delete it.

The phone asked:

Delete Contact?

He hesitated.

Then pressed Yes.

The name disappeared.

The number vanished.

It felt strangely anticlimactic.

Like closing the final page of a book he'd never wanted to end.

"You okay?"

Max asked quietly.

Nate looked out at the darkening sky.

"...No." He smiled sadly. "But I think... For the first time ...I'm going to be."

Max nodded.

Neither of them spoke again.

They simply sat together on the porch steps, sipping warm soda while the evening settled around them.

Inside the garage, the old blue pickup truck still wasn't running.

Its engine remained scattered across the workbench.

Its future uncertain.

But every day, another bolt found its place.

Another piece fit where it belonged.

It wasn't fixed yet.

Neither were they.

But healing—whether it belonged to an old truck or a wounded heart—was rarely a single moment.

It was choosing, day after day, to keep showing up.

And now, without realizing it, that was exactly what Nate and Max had begun doing for each other.