Page 21 of Waiting for Gilbert

“I’ll have Nickie draft something. She’s really good with the professional lingo.”

“I’m a writer.” I shrug into my heavy purple coat that makes me look like a ripe plum with my coordinating green hat and gloves, but I don’t care. It’s snuggly. I pop Gilbert’s collar up and tug his cap lower to cover his ears against the cold. When I notice he’s staring at me, mouth slightly parted, I realize what I’m doing and drop my hands to my sides. “Professional lingo isn’t my niche. Ready?” After I shove my feet into my stiff white snow boots, I open the door. A blast of frigid air yanks the breath from my lungs. Head ducked, I speed walk to his blue truck parked thirty feet away by his side door.

We both dive into the cab and slam the doors at the same time.

“Made it!” He raises his injured arm for a fistbump while still holding the wound with his left hand.

I gently tap his fist with my fluffy green one. “Is it still bleeding?”

“I’m afraid to look.” A full scale shiver racks his body.

“Where is your coat?”

“I’m fine, let’s go.”

“You aren’t. What if something happens? The truck breaks down, and we’re stranded, and have to walk to town? You wouldn’t make it half a mile in this weather.” Arms extended, I model my warm coat and knitted mittens. “I would barely make it. My knees are already knocking. Where’s your coat? I’ll grab it.”

He taps his head against the long window behind us.Tap, Tap, Tap. Another shiver wracks his body. “Upstairs in the first bedroom.”

“I shall return.”

I scurry up the front steps into the house. It’s warmer inside but not enough. If it’s three degrees outside, it’s maybe thirty-five degrees here. I flip the lightswitch, and nothing happens. I’m in a mudroom with a stack of boards lining the wall. I make my way into the main house and skid to a stop in a large room. It smells like a campfire. Moonlight streams from the uncurtained windows and reveals a construction zone. The hardwood floors are covered in sawdust. A makeshift table of boards over a couple of sawhorses holds an assortment of tools. The walls are skeletal with yellow spray foam insulation between the studs. White panels of drywall are stacked against the far wall. Red coals glow from a massive fireplace in the center wall of the house.

I carefully make my way to what was once a grand staircase and follow the light to the first bedroom.

It is not a bedroom. The walls are stripped to studs, as downstairs. The floor has been swept and there’s a ladder in the corner with a utility lamp clipped to a rung. A duffle bag sits in the corner next to a wrapped up ball of bedding and a carry-on suitcase. There’s a step-stool next to the broken window. A wadded T-shirt plugs the hole that I assume his arm went through.

Coat. Right. On the floor near the duffle bag is a brown canvas work coat. I grab it and a pair of thick gloves and head downstairs.

Back in the truck I toss Gilbert his coat. “Still with me? You didn’t bleed out or turn into a popsicle while I was gone?”

“Still here. Let’s go, Champ.”

“Huh.” I angle toward him and stare a moment while he slips his left arm into his coat, leaving the right pressed against his chest. “Thank you,” I say.

“What?”

“Of all the nicknames you could have thrown at me, you didn’t pick one having to do with my height, weight, or hair color.” A swirl of emotion curls in my stomach. We’ll address the state of his house later. There isno wayhe’s sleeping in that place tonight.

He stares at me with that same funny look on his face from before.

The key is in the ignition on the steering column. I turn it.

He yelps, “Clutch!” the same moment the truck jerks forward and dies.

I narrowly miss slamming my head against the steering wheel. My heart is in my throat, and I’m prickly hot all over with a burst of adrenaline. Slowly, I turn my head to Gilbert.

He’s all smiles and sunshine in this dark, cold night. “Clutch,” he says again, like that’s supposed to mean something to me. “I usually leave it in gear so I don’t forget about the e-brake. Sorry.”

I glance at the stick between us and look down at the three pedals at my feet and back at him.Clutch… I register what this means, yet still I ask. “Gilbert, please explain why there are three pedals in your truck.”

9

GILBERT

VAN HALEN—JUMP

“Clutch. Brake. Gas. I take it this is new?” I tighten my grip along my forearm. It stings but doesn’t hurt so much if I keep it perfectly still. If I forget and flex my hand or fingers, I remember why I almost failed high school anatomy. There are over two-hundred-million muscles connecting everything to everything else and at least twelve dozen of them plus all their nerves pass through the gash in my forearm.

---