Page 42 of Married in Michigan

He shrugs. “Hey, you’ve never operated a car, so I’m just covering all the basics.” He taps the shifter. “This changes the gears. The numbers indicate where the gears are—first, second, third, and fourth,” He traces the tree diagram as he says each gear. “So, you start in first, up here, and then follow the pattern. It becomes second nature after a while.” He gestures at the floor. “Three pedals—gas on the right, brake in the middle, clutch on the left.

“Already lost,” I quip. “Not really. But how do they all work together?”

“Well, the clutch pedal, on the left, pulls the gear out, and then you move the shifter and release the clutch pedal, and the engine moves into the next gear. You take your foot off the gas while you have the clutch pedal down, and push the gas down again after it’s in gear. Try pushing in the clutch.”

I push it in. “Okay.”

“Now put the shifter into first—all the way to the left, and forward.”

I do so.

“Okay, now—” he cuts himself off. “Wait, the parking brake is on. Put it back in neutral and take the brake off.” Once this is done, he gestures at the shifter. “Okay, try again.” Once the shifter is in first, he juts his chin up. “Cool. Now, very slowly, very gently, let out the clutch, and at the same time, push in the gas. You’ll feel the car start to move, feel the engine taking hold as the gear engages.”

By minute increments, and with a death grip on the steering wheel, I let off the clutch pedal and depress the gas—and, as he said, at a certain point I feel the difference in the steering wheel, and hear it in the engine. The motor hums louder and higher pitched, and then something catches, and the car begins to roll forward—and then I let off the clutch entirely and the car bolts forward, startling me into releasing both clutch and gas. The engine stalls, and the car rolls to a stop.

“That was good!” Paxton says.

I frown. “No, it wasn’t. I stalled it.”

He waves a hand. “Eh. Everyone stalls their first time. I told you, there’s a learning curve. This time, when you feel the motor catch, try to find the balance where you’re not letting off all the way all at once until the car is moving. But don’t jam the gas pedal down or we’ll jolt. Smooth and easy and slow.”

So, I try again, and this time, I get a bit farther before it stalls out. Within ten minutes of somewhat frustrated effort, I have the knack of it, and we’re trundling slowly down the driveway, which curves and dips and rises; I keep it in first and under twenty miles per hour, learning the feel of the wheel and the gas and the brake, accelerating and slowing down, turning this way and that…

I glance at him with a smile. “Thisisfun.”

He chortles, leaning back in his seat, a long thick arm draped over the back of my seat. “Babe, you’re going literally eleven miles per hour. Wait until we’ve got you a license and you can do ninety on the highway.That’s where the fun is at.”

“Speed?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, yes. I really love going fast. There’s nothing in the world like getting eight or nine hundred horses howling on a track. But no, I just mean…” He waves a hand at the open sky overhead. “Driving with the top back, the wind in your hair, the flat four singing behind you…sun shining, not a care in the world, nowhere to go but wherever the highway takes you.” He sighs, a great lungful of air sucked in, held, his head tipped back to bathe in the golden sunshine, and then a happy, whooshing exhale. “Like I said—it’s one of life’s greatest joys.”

I bring us to a stop in front of the garage. “Two things I know nothing about—not having a care in the world, and life’s greatest joys.”

Paxton starts laughing, and then lifts his head to look at me, and realizes I’m not joking. “Makayla, Jesus. That’s awful.”

I snort, shrug. “I mean, I’m not being all poor me. I got nothing to complain about. My momma loves me, I’ve always had some kind of a roof over my head and food to eat and clothes to wear. My life has just been focused on the grind, you know? Surviving day to day.”

He prods the clicker attached to the underside of the sun visor, and a garage door opens. “Well, Makayla Poe, that’s about to change.”

11

Paxton does the finicky work of pulling his Porsche into its spot in the cavernous garage, and then retrieves my duffel from the front trunk.

“Is it still called a trunk, if it’s in the front?” I ask, as he closes the lid and hangs the keys in a lockbox on the wall. “Or is it the hood?”

He smiles at me. “They call it a frunk.”

I laugh. “Frunk. What a funny word.” I eye the expansive garage. “So now…inside?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Now I have Johnny drive us to the airport.”

“Don’t you have to pack?”

He waves a hand, careless. “Nah. I keep everything I need both places.” He tilts his head. “Well, wherever I go regularly. I’ve got at least minimal wardrobes and toiletries and all that shit here, in DC, LA, Manhattan, Aspen, and London.”

I snort, a helpless giggle of hilarity. “You have houses in all those places?”

He shrugs, with awell yeahexpression on his face. “I live in DC while Congress is in session, and I have business interests in LA, New York, and London, and when I want to get away from everything, I go to Aspen.”