“Work?” he asked.
“I sort of need a job if I’m going to start driving again. Gas and insurance and stuff.”
He wiped a smudge of grease on my nose. “Does this mean I have to pay you real money?”
“Well, you can’t pay me in doughnuts,” I said with a laugh.
“Then I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
When I got back to the group, we stood around as if we weren’t sure if the day was over or not.
“Thanks for going with me,” I told them.
Gina said, “We should try to road-trip somewhere every anniversary.”
We all agreed, but I wasn’t sure we’d follow through. Maybe we would.
Gina and Gray walked wearily toward her car, and I asked Max if he’d escort me to the Yaris. Max gave me a little chin-nod, and we trudged toward an aisle I’d been down many times.
“What are we doing?” he asked.
“You’ll see.”
He didn’t seem to need more than that.
Halfway down the Yaris’s aisle, we passed the Buick I’d written my list on the first day I brought Max to see Trent’s car. Wind had blown the dust around, but it hadn’t rained, so the list was still visible. Max ran his hand over the hood, erasing the list, since it was nearly complete. We followed the moonlight to Trent’s car.
“What are we doing?” Max asked.
“We’re leaving the rest of the past in the past,” I told him.
When we reached the Yaris, I asked Max if he needed a moment, but he said no. The old heap didn’t draw blood or tears from him as it had the last two times. Instead, Max walked around to the bumper and ripped away the top layer of an I Love Climbing sticker.
“I never asked where he got that,” I said.
“Souvenir shop in Denver. On family vacation. Right before the accident.”
“Did y’all climb?”
Max shook his head. “We tried. He was scared of heights so he bought a sticker and said he’d do it next time.”
“Sounds like him,” I said.
Trent, lover of star and sky. Fear couldn’t tie him to the ground anymore. I think Max and I were both considering that as he let the sticker curl in on itself and placed it in his pocket. Max was taking something with him. I was leaving something behind.
I removed Big from my bag. Empty, he wore only his own gouging scar from where I’d removed his paper stuffing.
The idea had come to me on the drive home from Willit Hill this morning. If the stuffing went into the ground, then Big should go down with the ship—er, Yaris. If I wanted to live in the present, I needed to commit to it. These were tangible choices—an anchor, a trail marker, an emotional tattoo—to recognize the decision.
I opened the Yaris door, set Big in the shotgun seat, and buckled him in.
“You’re giving him up?” Max asked.
“He’s the old me.”
“He’s empty.”
“Exactly. The new me is full.”
Well, hopefully.
I closed the door. The metal-on-metal thud echoed through the yard. From her bed on the porch, Headlight bellowed.
Good-byes are never easy; not even for dogs and stuffed ostriches.
The words and thoughts I’d given to Big over the years, I would give to Max. Or my friends. And my family. That seemed right, and Big wouldn’t care. He was just an arcade toy with a hole in his belly.
He was a time machine.
I didn’t need him anymore.
“I like it, Kingston,” Max said, a long yawn stretching his mouth wide. “I think you’re going to be okay.”
“Well, I drank from the Fountain of Youth in a Dixie cup, so it’s only logical that—”
Max touched my cheek, touched the scar at my mouth, and stopped me from saying anything else. “That one have a name?” he asked.
“The scar? Nope.”
He kissed me again. “I’m thinking Max is a pretty solid name.”