Beau pronounced about an hour into our drive. “Someone took good care of her.” He meant the Brave. He filled every inch of the passenger seat beside me, even with it slid as far back as possible. I kept my hands firmly at ten and two on the wheel — not because I was that conscientious of a driver, but because I wanted to reach across and hold his hand or arm … just touch him. “Yes,” I answered. “I’m pretty lucky.” He turned to look at me. His gaze actually warmed the skin of my right cheek and neck. “You’re not the only one.” He didn’t mean the Brave. I didn’t answer, but I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. We stopped for groceries in Tacoma, just outside Seattle, where Beau helped some random guy get his car started in the Walmart parking lot. I tried to not just stand there and stare like an idiot while his agile hands dug into the failing engine.
