Not the helpless tears I had expected when Brian sold it.
These were quieter.
I backed out of the garage.
At the end of the driveway, I almost turned around.
Instead, I headed west.
Dennis and I had talked about that coastal drive for years.
We had planned diners we wanted to stop at, overlooks where he wanted photographs, little towns where we might stay without reservations.
We never made the trip together.
But he had made certain no one could take the choice away from me.
By noon, the ocean appeared beyond the windshield.
I pulled into an overlook and shut off the engine.
For several minutes, I simply listened to the metal ticking as it cooled.
Dennis’s empty passenger seat hurt.
It probably always would.
But the pain no longer felt like someone had stolen the rest of my life along with him.
I touched the steering wheel he had restored with his own hands.
“You were right,” I whispered.
“It was ours.”
Then I corrected myself.
“It still is.”
I started the engine again and drove south with the windows cracked, the ocean beside me, and Dennis’s letter safely tucked inside the car he had protected for me long before I knew I would need protecting.
