Into You Series: The Complete Collection

5. Harry

CHAPTER 5

HARRY

I arrive at my sister’s house at eight o’clock on the dot. I key in through the side door in the open garage, stepping into the mudroom where I take off my work boots. I place them on the towel Nia designated specifically for me—she says I’m always dragging in the shop gunk—then find my way into the kitchen.

There, I find more people than I bargained for, but it’s a sight that’s not out of the norm either. Nia and Ian’s house seems to be the central hub for everyone in our circle.

On one side of their corner breakfast nook are the owners of the house, my sister, Nia, and her tall fiancé, Ian, who, even sitting down, looks like an adult at a kids table. He sits on the outside so his long legs can stretch out and reach the other side of the booth.

On the opposite end is Ian’s best friend, Cameron, his wife, Grace, and their six-month-old, Oliver, who bounces on his mom’s knee, blubbering nonsense in between sucking on a slice of banana that Grace holds at his lips.

And, right in the middle, where the corners of the kitchen meet, sits my daughter, Cara, whose eyes light up the instant everyone choruses a collective, sleepy “Hey.”

“Daddy!” she calls.

Her greeting is my favorite.

That one word can turn my heart into a deadweight, falling from a height I didn’t know it was at. I live to hear my daughter’s voice after being away. I live for the rambunctious way she sidles out from the corner nook, climbing on Nia, who tries to help her over, and on top of Ian, whose hands are raised in surrender to let her by. She stumbles her way to me, finally wrapping her tiny arms around my legs in a hug.

Cara and I rarely go long periods of time without seeing each other. She just started kindergarten this year, and that was an odd adjustment for both of us after going from the short days at preschool. I was used to having her as my shop assistant. She was good at wiping down the tools. Now my wrench is entirely too greasy during the week.

I swing down to pick her up, letting her legs kick in the air for a moment, her giggles echoing in my ear.

“Tell me about daddy night!” she says as I place her on my hip, moving a strand of hair behind her ear. Cara has the Smith family characteristic of our thick honeyed blonde locks that border on white, but she inherited her mother’s curls.

“Yes, we want to hear all about daddy night,” Ian says, one eyebrow raised as he scoops a large spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“It was uneventful,” I say with a shrug, poking Cara’s nose and wiping the loose bit of cereal from her cheek before placing her down. She runs back to the table, climbing over Ian and Nia once more—them grunting the entire way—and plopping back down in her corner seat.

“What did you guys do?” I ask.

“We built a robot!” Cara practically yells, squirming in her chair and laughing like just the prospect of building anything is delightful. That’s my girl.

“Did you build anything, Harry?” Nia asks with raised eyebrows.

“Like, I don’t know, maybe a relationship?” Ian says.

Sure, if you want to call it that.

“No, I just watched movies,” I lie.

Memories of the actual night before come flooding back.

Saria.

A girl so sexy and wild I don’t think even hell could take her. Maybe last night was what I needed to break my dry spell. Something wild and loose, no strings attached. Maybe I could see myself tiptoeing back into the dating pool after that.

But, even trying to fall asleep afterward, I kept finding myself glancing back over to the young woman lying beside me on that couch, curled into a tight ball, snoring like the gates of hell had opened and demons were overtaking her body.

It was weird. It was cute. And with the little I knew about Saria, it seemed very her .

“He likes to watch Frozen ,” Cara says.

Grace taps Cameron’s shoulder and laughs. “Cameron likes The Little Mermaid .”

“No, no, no,” he says, shaking his finger, “Oliver—he’s into it, not me.” What follows is a mix between a scoff and a laugh that can only come from a man who absolutely uses their child as an excuse for watching Disney movies.

“It’s that weird redhead fetish you got going on,” Ian says through a mouthful of cereal.

Nia nudges him in the side with a half-concealed smile. What I like about Ian is that he says what Nia thinks. She’s just too polite to say the comments herself.

“What’s a fetish?” Cara asks.

“Hey, I wanna see that super-cool robot,” I say quickly, nodding toward the living room. “Can it move on its own?”

“No!” Cara says. “That’s crazy talk .”

“Well then, show it to me!”

Gasping, Cara walks over their laps once more, the two of them yelping with each tiny footfall.

“Crazy,” she says, punctuating the word by landing on the floor gracefully. “Talk!”

I squint at her, trying to decipher where the heck she heard that phrase before she disappears into the living room and out of sight.

“Alright, so come on, give us some good news,” Ian says.

“Like what?” I ask with a laugh, walking backward until I hit a counter, which I hoist myself up on. Nia snaps her fingers at me, and I hop down with a smile.

“Bar fling?” Grace asks.

“You didn’t work, right?” Nia asks with a lifted eyebrow. “Tell me you didn’t just do paperwork.”

“Ooh, yeah, my money was on that one,” Cameron says, pointing a finger at Nia with a nod.

Like vultures.

I meander to the opposite counter, lifting the lid to a jar and grabbing a cookie out.

“Yes, I went to a bar,” I say absentmindedly. “Just like you guys told me to.”

“And?” Grace asks, eyes wide and nodding as she pops a small slice of banana into her own mouth before grabbing another one for Oliver to gum on.

I shrug after a moment’s silence and take a bite of the cookie. This subtle movement somehow elicits a collective gasp from everyone except Nia.

“You got laid, didn’t you?” Grace whisper-hisses.

“There’s a twinkle in your eye,” Cameron says.

“Like Santa,” Ian says. “But jollier.”

Nia leans back and crosses her arms. “Harry doesn’t kiss and tell. Right, Harry?”

I shrug again.

“Ah, whatever, you’ll tell me later,” Ian says, more to himself than anyone else, twirling his spoon in the leftover cereal milk.

“No, I won’t. You’ll tell Nia,” I say with a laugh.

“Yeah, honey, you tell me everything,” she says, patting his shoulder with a knowing nod before snapping at me again. “Off the counter, Harry. Come on, seriously?”

I hadn’t realized I’d tried to sit up there again. I hop down, grabbing one of the stools from under the island and sitting down.

They all stare at me with varying levels of expectancy, and I clear my throat.

“Okay, sure, I met someone. We hung out.”

“And?” Grace says, twirling her hand in the air, demanding more.

“Nothing,” I lie.

“Nothing?!” they all chorus.

Ian curls a finger in Grace’s direction. “Fork it over, Kaufman.”

Grace scrunches her nose. “No, we don’t even have the full story.”

“Did you guys bet that I would have a stale night?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Grace says. “ Did you?”

“I watched movies with her. What do you want from me?”

They all sigh.

My sister is right: I don’t kiss and tell.

“BEEP. BOOP. BOP.”

The sudden robot sounds cause all of us to look toward the kitchen threshold, where we find my child covered in various layers of cardboard parading stiffly into the room. Most visible areas of the construction have marker doodles with shapes resembling levers or switches.

“Oh. You’re the robot,” I say with a laugh.

“That’s. Crazy. Talk,” she says, each syllable short and deliberate.

“Okay, why does she keep saying that?” I ask.

Nia sighs. “Ian thought it would be funny to give her a catch phrase.”

Ian busts out laughing. “Dude, kids are like sponges . Did you know that?”

I look at Cara, who’s now effectively doing the robot dance with clipped movements and dynamic poses, which I’m sure was another fun trick Uncle Ian bestowed upon her.

I want to spend more time with her like this, with our family and friends. But then there’s the shop, where it’s going down the line and what is needed to keep that dream afloat as well.

Classes are what is needed to level up my business, and my mental agenda keeps telling me they’re out of the question given my time cut between running the actual business and being a dad.

Auto vendors host classes at local community colleges, and while I could listen to automotive industry news and trends all day long, the issue is not with wanting to attend; the issue is that I need to. If you don’t find a way to expand and stay on top of new technologies, your business becomes obsolete. And learning, taking classes, improving…that takes time . Time: my one true enemy.

“Hey pumpkin, go pack your things,” I say. “I’m thinking it’s a park day. How about you?”

“YES!” The word is nearly a scream as Cara runs off, the sound of cardboard crunching behind her.

My phone buzzes and I look down at it. On my lock screen is a reminder for an upcoming Monday class. Just like clockwork, it read my mind.

“Hey,” I start, pocketing my phone and clearing my throat. I feel my chest tighten even starting to ask the question. “I know it’s asking a lot, but can you babysit again Monday night?”

I don’t like imposing on their lives, even though Ian and Nia always say they don’t mind one bit.

“Class?” Nia asks, sipping her orange juice. Clearly, she is not as bothered by this imposition as I am.

I nod. “Yeah, and listen, I know you’re not a full-time babysitter. I think it’s just?—”

“Well,” Ian interrupts, “ I’m thinking mac and cheese for dinner Monday. What say you, Polly?”

“Absolutely,” Nia says, rubbing his forearm at the sound of her nickname. “It’s Cara’s favorite.”

I open my mouth and close it again, trying to find the words to express how grateful I feel in this moment, but I’m not even sure what to say. Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything because just then, the mudroom door swings open and in walks my oldest brother, Grant, his hair disheveled and tight cycling clothes hugging every wrong part of his body.

“Yeah, yeah, good morning,” he mutters through heavy breaths as he leans under the sink water to dunk his head in.

“Grant!” Nia starts, but her tone is already defeated once water splashes onto the floor around his long overgrown blond locks. I wouldn’t normally excuse people’s actions, but honestly Grant has done much worse and been much worse. His absurd cycling gear on his late-forties body is a far better sight than how he looked beer-gutted with a bad dye job one year ago at Cameron and Grace’s wedding.

Grant turns off the water and grabs an apple from Nia’s hanging fruit sack. The man has an issue with addiction, and if he drops one habit, he inevitably finds the next one. At least now it’s cycling and apples.

“I miss when Mom made me a snack after my ride,” he says.

Our parents recently retired and moved down to Florida. Cara and I were staying with them, but once they announced they were leaving, I renovated the office space above the auto shop into an apartment. It’s been nice having a place of our own, but I do miss the free babysitting.

“Beach life suits them,” I say.

Nia snorts. “I hear they only wear hemp now.”

“Yeah,” Grant and I muse.

Ian slumps in the booth and leans his head on Nia’s shoulder. “Damn, your parents are so cool.”

“Sucks they can’t help with babysitting anymore,” Grant chimes in, reading my mind.

“They come up when they can,” I say. “Cara and I get along just fine.”

I can already see the massive eye roll forming in Grant’s eyes, like he prepares his distaste with a drum roll and a flutter of his eyelids.

“You know, it’d be nice if she helped,” he says.

He doesn’t need to say her name; we all know who he’s referring to.

I don’t like it when Grant brings up Riley. Cara’s biological mother is not a bad person; she simply wasn’t ready for kids. She was young, had her future planned out, and I wanted to love this child more than she felt she could. She gave up most of her rights to Cara, except for occasional visits.

“She’s off living life or something,” I say, trying to come to her defense, but I realize it comes out worse than intended.

“Yeah—or something,” Grant says. “She calls when she feels bad.”

“Hey, Grant, can you throw me an apple?” Ian asks.

“Oh, yeah, sure, man.”

The moment Ian catches it, smooth like catching a baseball in a mitt, he instantly throws it back, hitting Grant smack in the forehead.

“What the heck?” Grant asks.

“Be nice , tight pants man!” Ian says.

Grant twists his lips to the side. “Hey, that’s a pretty cool superhero name.”

Cara appears in the threshold to the kitchen once more, her backpack spilling over with stuffed toys and action figures ranging from GI Joes to Powerpuff Girls.

“That’s crazy talk!” she huffs, each syllable separated by a breath of air, having run from the bedroom back here. She doesn’t like being left out of adult conversations.

Grant squats down, resting his elbows on his knees. “Hey, I like the new phrase!”

Cara’s face falls flat as she stares at her uncle in his cycling uniform that he bought two sizes too small and the red mark on his forehead from an apple thrown by her other uncle. It feels like kismet when we all hear a small rip and the seat in his bike shorts splits.

“You look silly, Uncle Grant,” Cara deadpans.

He sighs. “Yeah, not the first time I’ve heard that from a woman.”

I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket again and once more ignore the reminder of the upcoming class. It isn’t until two rings later that I realize it may not be a calendar event. I pull it out to see an incoming call from a local towing company we contract with.

I unlock it and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Sandy,” I say.

“Howdy Harry,” a scratchy voice on the other end replies, resembling tires on gravel—a throat ravaged by time and cigarettes. And, knowing Sandy, lots of harsh booze. “How’s the wife and kids?”

“No need to be a jerk, ya bum,” I say, holding up a finger and excusing myself to the other room.

Distantly, I hear Ian exit the kitchen behind me, saying, “Let me grab you some shorts, Grant, so we don’t have two fruit sacks swinging around in the kitchen.”

“Are you home?” Sandy asks. “We’re on our way to your shop if you’ve got time for a drop-off.”

I glance down at my watch. It’s always time .

“Not a quick fix?” I ask. I promised Cara the park; we’re doing the park.

Heavy laughter ensues, followed by coughing.

“You haven’t seen this thing,” Sandy rasps.

Cara’s head pops out from behind the threshold, a sideways jack-in-the-box.

“Is that Sandy?” she yells.

I press my finger to my lips, but Sandy cough-laughs again.

“It’s her favorite,” she says.

“What is?”

“The drop-off. It’s a van.”

I smile over at Cara, who is already smiling back.

Well it seems today is both our lucky days. Sometimes kids pick up the weirdest obsessions, and Cara’s is vans. Have a Camaro pull into the shop and you won’t hear a peep out of her. Some rickety van? She’s all over it.

The whole ‘strangers in white vans’ talk is a moot point for a shop kid.

“A van, huh?” I ask. Cara’s eyes widen.

“Do you have time or not?” Sandy asks.

“Yeah, I’ll meet you there soon,” I say before hanging up and walking back to the kitchen.

“Hey robot girl, we’ve gotta hit the road. Sandy says we’ve got a van coming in!”

The light in her eyes shines so bright that, in comparison, my announcement about visiting a park seems like a day at the sewage plant. Like I said, the simple pleasures, I suppose. Works out for both of us.

“I love vans!” Cara says, squeezing her fists tight.

“Well, let’s go take care of one.” I pat the top of her head, batting the top knot a bit so that she giggles. “Bye, guys.” I shake Ian’s hand and wave to Nia. “Thanks again.”

“Any time,” they say almost simultaneously. Nia smiles and nudges Ian. Watching the two of them is both weird and wonderful all at once, like they’re twin magnets and which end they choose to point at each other is a wild card—sometimes there’s a push, sometimes a pull, but they always magnetize their way back to each other through time. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous.

“Let’s make dinosaurs next time,” Cara says, bouncing on the balls of her feet as Ian pulls her into a side hug. He’s too tall to properly bend down to Cara’s height, but she manages by wrapping her arms around his leg instead.

I wave goodbye to Cameron and Grace as Cara gives little Oliver a light high five, at least as much as he can with the support of his mom’s hand, and we exit into the garage with only the distant sight of Grant running from the kitchen in slightly ripped shorts.

I open the back door for Cara, letting her hop in. My daily driver isn’t my Porsche, but this SUV is the safest on the market and it fits my little girl’s car seat. That’s all that matters.

“Roller coaster,” I say.

Cara’s hands go skyward. “Whoosh!” she says, as I check her buckle once her hands are out of the way.

The ten-minute drive back to our shop feels longer than it should. It’s not that I’m nervous about repairing a van. I could do that in my sleep. It’s everything else piling up on me.

How the hell am I going to get all my classes in? I can’t constantly depend on Nia and Ian to babysit. They have lives. They’re planning a wedding. And then there’s expanding the shop, plus Cara herself. At what point am I obsessing about my career and not concentrating on being a good father? Am I accomplishing both?

By the time we pull into the parking lot next to the garage, I’m stressed and wanting nothing more than to bury myself in tools and grease.

Sandy’s tow truck is already here. Sandy is a heavy, hunched woman with gangly wrinkled limbs and a gut that is compactly held in by stained high-waisted pants likely older than me. Her free hand is poised with a cigarette, the only part of her that looks slightly debutante. Her other hand rests on the side of the truck as she lowers the van to the gravel. Slowly but surely, it rolls off.

The van is an older model, no doubt about that—early 90s if I had to guess—and it’s in need of a good wash. I’d be willing to bet the interior isn’t much cleaner. I’ll be lucky if I don’t see spiders in the van, though by the look of it, I don’t believe I’ll be lucky.

I park on the side of the building, pulling into the spot near the side door. Cara has unbuckled her car seat by the time I get around to open her door. In an instant, she’s out, racing toward the deposited van.

My nerves stand on edge instantly.

“Cara, what have I said about running in this lot?” I call to her. She slows down to a very casual speed-walk, shuffling her feet.

“I’m not running. I’m walking.”

I shake my head with a smile. “There we go.”

We round the corner with dust billowing behind us as we take in the monstrosity. The van is much bigger up close, but they always are. They’re built like tanks, especially these older models.

I instantly start looking over it, running my hand along the side, over a hole where a side door handle may have once been. Bolts sticking out, duct tape— hell, are those paperclips? It’s a mess on four wheels. I’m surprised it ran at all, if it did.

I feel a tugging on the hem of my shirt, stretching it down. Cara is trying to get my attention.

“Hang on, pumpkin.”

There’s a moment before more tugging as I trace the edge of the van’s bumper.

“Is she an angel?” Cara asks.

I laugh. “Who, Sandy?”

“No, her.”

I follow Cara’s line of sight to the passenger side of the tow truck, where a woman stands looking every bit the description Cara gave.

Except I know that woman.

Saria.

I knew Saria was beautiful last night, but something about the way the morning sun is hitting her back, illuminating her figure, presents her in an ethereal light. Maybe it’s the way her silver-white dyed hair is tousled by the cool autumn wind and how her white shirt blows with it, or how dilapidated the van is. It’s a stark contrast to her ripped black denim and boots beneath her, like a fallen angel trekking through hell.

Saria’s eyes look from Cara and back to me. Cara’s hand is still gripping my shirt, likely just as entranced by Saria’s arrival as I am. I think Sandy might be talking in the distance, but I’m honestly not sure.

The world feels like a blur around me as Cara gives my shirt another tug and says, “Daddy, she’s beautiful.”

Saria tilts her head to the side, her slight smile slipping into a frown before saying, “Daddy?”

Oh. Right.

“Yeah,” I reply with a slow nod. “Daddy.”