Chapter 15 - Nate’s Workshop and the Garage Project
Saturday morning arrived with a pale, golden light that cut horizontally across the brick facades of Covington. I woke up without an alarm, brewed a pot of dark roast coffee, and spent an hour reading a technical journal on thermodynamics before pulling on a grease-stained hoodie and driving over to Nate’s house in Walnut Hills.
Nate’s detached two-car garage smelled of motor oil, old leather, sawdust, and burnt coffee—the holy trinity of masculine sanctuary. When I pulled my car into his gravel driveway, the garage door was wide open, revealing Nate standing over a dismantled 1978 Honda CB750 motorcycle engine spread out across a sturdy wooden workbench.
“You're late,” Nate called out, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag as I stepped inside.
“Traffic on the bridge was backed up,” I replied, tossing him a fresh cup of coffee I’d picked up along the way.
Nate took the cup, took a grateful sip, and pointed a wrench at the disassembled cylinder head. “Look at this gasket. Pitted right here on the edge. Previous owner tried to seal it with liquid gasket instead of doing it right.”
I walked over, peering down at the metal. “Classic shortcut. They didn't want to spend twenty bucks on a replacement part, so they ruined the whole compression chamber.”
“Reminds me of a few things,” Nate muttered, glancing sideways at me to see how I’d take the comparison.
I didn't flinch. I just chuckled, grabbing a clean rag to wipe down my own hands. “Yeah. Well, bad seals always blow out when the pressure gets high enough.”
We spent the next four hours in companionable silence, broken only by the clink of metal tools, the hum of classic rock playing from an old radio in the corner, and occasional debates over torque specifications. Working with my hands had always been my natural therapy. When you're rebuilding an engine, every bolt has a specific purpose, every part fits where it belongs, and there is no room for social games or hidden agendas. If something is broken, you fix it or replace it. There is no pretending it works just to keep up appearances.
Around noon, Nate tossed his wrench onto the bench and leaned against the edge. “So, your ex-wife tried to reach out to Sarah last week.”
My hand paused on a carburetor float bowl. I looked up. “Sarah? My sister?”
“Yeah,” Nate said, his expression turning serious. “Apparently she found Sarah's work email and sent a long message apologizing, saying she's going to therapy, trying to understand why she ruined everything, asking if there's any way you two could talk.”
I stared at the oily engine parts on the workbench. The news didn't trigger anger anymore. It didn't even trigger satisfaction. It just felt distant, like reading about characters in a novel I had finished reading months ago.
“What did Sarah say?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Nate shrugged. “Blocked the email address before she even finished reading it. Sarah told her, 'Ethan has moved on, and you should do the same.'”
I nodded slowly, feeling a deep wave of gratitude for my family and friends who had stood by me without hesitation. “Good.”
“You still think about her at all?” Nate asked quietly, watching me closely.
“I think about the five years before the wedding,” I said honestly, picking up a screwdriver and spinning it between my fingers. “The person I thought she was. But the person who laughed on that dance floor while I was blindfolded? That person was a stranger. I've made peace with that.”
May you like
Nate grinned, raising his coffee mug. “Good. Because I found a second motorcycle on Facebook Marketplace that needs twice as much work, and I need a co-conspirator.”
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