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“You’ll never believe it,”I say, holding up the glass, which is half filled with whiskey. “I’m a married man.”

Sitting on a stool, I toast the air and take a long drag of the liquid.

When I brought Genesis into my life, I didn’t expect her to change it so much.

Didn’t expect her to changemeso much.

Every night, I come home early, not spending every hour working.

I call in and check on her throughout the day.

Genesis consumes most of my thoughts.

It reminds me of my parents’ marriage.

I almost feel like my father.

He always looked forward to going home to my mother. He said it was nice knowing someone cared that youdidcome home.

Men in our lifestyle not coming home was common.

Death is even more common.

It was a fact I accepted a long time ago.

If I died, then I died.

But now, I care more than I ever have.

I care because I want to come home to Genesis, knowing she does give a damn I’m home.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “On top of that, I’m married to Genesis.” I down the rest of my drink and lower the glass to the garage workbench.

The car I’m speaking to doesn’t reply to me.

It never does.

Not that I’m insane enough toexpectit to.

I visit my family’s graves regularly, but this is where I go when I want to talk to my father alone.

Sitting here, talking to this car, is my source of therapy.

I don’t do it often since I’m busy and I prefer not to talk much, but anytime I’ve opened up aboutanyof my feelings, it’s here.

I look away from the car at the sound of the garage door that leads into the house opening. Genesis appears in the doorway, and I lean back in the stool to get a better look as she walks toward me.

She’s dressed in a cashmere robe and fluffy pink slippers. “You weren’t in bed,” she says around a yawn, her eyes sleepy.

I check my watch, realizing it’s four in the morning. I snuck out a few hours ago. “I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake you.” I take a sip of my drink, hoping she’ll go back to bed.

In true Genesis style, she doesn’t.

She walks closer, running her fingers along the ’67 Chevy Chevelle. It’s blue with a white stripe on the hood.

“It’s just like your father’s,” she comments, looking inside through the window.

I nod. “It is.”