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The white socket drops into his palm, and he holds it up to me, grinning.

“I loosened it for you.”

“Muscles of steel.” He tosses it up and catches it again. “Like buns of steel, but the ladies can see it all. No imagination required.”

“Try working the muscle between your ears.” I look at the work order hanging on the wall. “I’ve found ladies like it more.”

“Say, you went to college, right?” He picks up one of the tires and rolls it inside the garage.

“Four years. Graduated with honors.”

He goes back for the next one. “Should I go to college?”

It’s a good question. I walk over and to help him. “It’s a big expense. If you’re planning to be a mechanic forever, then probably not. Trade school is enough.”

“So what are you doing here?” He’s following me with the last new tire for the Jag.

“It’s a long story.” One I don’t feel like discussing with Billy. Hell, I didn’t feel like discussing it with Dag. “We’ll put these on after lunch.”

“She bringing the car by again?” I nod, and he watches me a beat.

Finally, I look up. “What?”

“Drew Harris is the prettiest girl in town.”

“What about it?”

He shrugs, going to the box of new spark plugs and taking out four. “Back when my dad was fighting the dreams, the flashbacks, he told my mamma to leave. Told her to get out.”

“Why’d he do that?”

Billy takes out his latest whittling creation. “He figured it’d just get worse, he’d end up hitting her or something.”

“What happened?” I wince at the tone in my voice. I sound fucking desperate.

“She wouldn’t leave. My mamma’s stubborn as shit.” He returns to the Chevy and puts the carving in his pocket. “Dad started doing transcendental meditation. All kinds of crazy assed shit. He said the chanting pulled him out of the… ah…” he looks around as if for a translation book. “The loop.”

He circles his finger around his ear, and I start for the office. I don’t like the implication his dad’s crazy… or I might be.

Billy doesn’t quit talking as he installs the final spark plug. “He finally got through the worst of it.”

I pause before entering the small room. “Did he…” No. It’s not a question I can ask. It’s too personal.

My assistant seems to understand. “He never hit her. Never hit any of us. It wasn’t in him to hurt us.”

“Good morning, guys!” We both look up quick, and Billy lets out a low whistle.

Leslie is back, and this time she’s wearing a green wrap dress that plunges low at the neckline. Her breasts rise out of it, and I remember I was headed to the office. I’m sure my expression is as strung out as I feel, and I don’t need her getting any ideas.

“Hey, Leslie. Be right back.”

“Can I help you?” Billy walks over to her, holding the wrench in his hands and smiling.

In the office, I take a minute to collect myself. I want to believe the happy ending Billy’s dad got could happen for me. Still, I know how PTSD usually goes, the violence and the depression, the increased risk of suicidal thoughts. I know when I’m having a dream or a flashback, I’m not completely in control.

If I ever hurt Drew…

The image of me hitting her, or worse, while in that state tries to form in my mind, and I shut it down. I’d never hurt Drew. Not intentionally.