The Driveway

I twisted the mound of dreadlocks into a nappy beehive atop my head and hopped out of the passenger seat. The first weekend of my vacation was spent living in my dear friend’s white ‘86 VW Westfalia, VanGo. Three days of heat, rain, music, mud, and beer. The Idaho sun scorched my hungover, dehydrated fair midwestern skin. August heat was different out here; dry and intense.

“There is just nobody like him.” Laurie had just spent the previous hour of our greasy pub lunch trying to put words to him. Her tone excited and enthusiastic then laced with hesitation. Her descriptive lead up didn't make much sense to me at the time. We were only stopping by his shop to drop off a borrowed tool as we rolled out of town. National park friends had introduced her and her husband to Jeremy, their mechanic son, years ago. Since then, he'd done extensive restoration work on VanGo.

I fixed my skirt as I walked across the gravel drive. It was a futile attempt to dust off the festival weekend. The main garage door was open; he was pushing a broom across the smooth concrete floor. Casually raising his head up from tiding, he flashed a grin. "Hey ladies!"

Was it his eyes or his smile that made my stomach drop? Perhaps it was a bit of both. Suddenly, Laurie's warning clicked in my brain.