Page 130 of Dirty Mechanic

Rain taps the awning above the courthouse entrance. The drizzle is soft, steady, almost cleansing. Eric slipped out early to pull the van around. When we get outside, he’s already standing by the open passenger door, helping Misty into the seat like she’s made of glass. She doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t speak. Just lets him buckle her in and fold the blanket over her lap.

I help Annabelle into the back and slide in beside her. She’s quiet—like she’s afraid to breathe too deeply and lose the moment. I fasten her seatbelt before I even think about it. Muscle memory. Love turned automatic.

Up front, Emma turns the key, pulls away from the courthouse and heads toward the hospital.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re walking down the hall, hand in hand. Blake’s room is quiet except for the slow, steady rhythm of the machines. My parents rise from the corner chairs when we enter, tired but hopeful.

Blake’s chest rises and falls, mechanical and even. He looks peaceful. Too peaceful.

I nod at the resident standing by the monitors. “When will he wake up?”

The doctor glances at the readout. “It’s impossible to say. He has anoxic encephalopathy. His brain’s healing, but only he can decide when he’s done.”

I know what that means. No promises. No timelines. Just time. And hope.

I squeeze Annabelle’s shoulder, then crouch beside the bed. My son’s hair is damp with sweat. I brush it back gently.

“We’re free,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the word. “You hear that, son? We’re free. But I’ll never be whole without you.”

I swallow hard.

“So don’t you dare quit now. We need you home.”

I curl my fingers around his hand—cool, limp, too still. These are the same hands that rebuilt engines and hoisted Misty out of the barn when she sprained her ankle. The same hands that held Annabelle like she was breakable, even when she wasn’t.

I need them to move.

I need him to move.

But even as I sit there begging… I still believe.

Sometime later, I slide into the back seat of Emma’s van, soaked to the bone and still wearing the same damn sweatshirt I nearly drowned in. The hospital glows behind us, fluorescent and cold—too bright, too sterile. A place that hums with machines and smells like bleach and endings.

They did their best. Good people, kind voices. But that place swallows hope and spits out silence. Leaving Blake behind, even temporarily, feels like I’m cutting off a part of myself and telling it to wait. But we had to go.

Rain scatters against the windshield, soft and steady, blurring the road into red tail lights and sleepy storefronts. I climb in beside Annabelle and quietly buckle her seatbelt, fingers brushing hers like an apology for all the times I couldn’t protect her.

Emma catches my eye in the mirror. “Where to?”

I look at Annabelle. Her eyes meet mine—tired, wide, full of something that looks a hell of a lot like hope. I don’t hesitate.

“The orchard.”

Emma turns the key. The engine hums and we drive into the rain.

The town is hushed, like it’s holding its breath. We roll past shuttered shops and dark windows until the hill crests and the orchard comes into view—rows of apple trees standing like sentries in the mist.

Emma eases off the road, gravel crackling beneath the tires. When we stop, I’m already out of the car, moving fast around to open Annabelle’s door. She steps out slow, careful, like the ground might vanish if she moves too quickly. I steady her with one hand at the small of her back.

We walk in silence, the scent of damp leaves and fresh earth curling around us like a promise. At the base of our young apple tree, I stop.

The wooden marker I carved is still there. D + A, etched the morning after our wedding. I touch it once, then turn to face her.

“I promised you a real wedding,” I say, voice rough but steady. “No loopholes. No more waiting.”

I pull the velvet box from my jacket pocket and drop to one knee—soaking wet, exhausted, completely sure.

“Annabelle Waters, will you marry me? Again.”