Page 13 of Let Me In

Dad notices. Straightens from where he’s been leaning in the garage doorway. His face shifts—performative interest bloomingacross his features. He wipes his hands on a rag that doesn’t need it, already moving toward the car before it’s fully stopped.

I already know what he thinks.

He thinks the car is here for him.

He’s a mechanic. Has been for decades. That sound, that body—he’s probably been dreaming about something like it since high school. And now it’s parked in front of his house.

The Chevelle rolls to a stop. Engine idling low. Cal steps out.

Black t-shirt. Fitted jeans. Boots. Sunglasses still on. Calm like nothing could surprise him. Like he expected to be here.

My father is already half a step toward him, voice bright and too loud. “Beautiful ride you’ve got there. Is that a ’70?”

Cal’s mouth lifts, barely. Polite. Nothing more. “Yeah.”

Dad’s grinning like he’s just been given something. Keeps talking. Asking about the engine, the build, the tires. Cal nods once or twice, offers a few clipped answers. His eyes, though—

They skip the car. Pass over my father.

And land, steady and unshaken, on me.

And when he finally steps around Dad, it’s not abrupt. Just intentional. Quiet and clean.

He walks straight to where I’m standing beside the bike and the buyer. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands beside me. Unmoving. Present in a way that steadies me more than any words could.

The buyer blinks. Eyes Cal’s frame, his face, the stillness he brings with him.

Then he looks back at me. “Look, I can do $1,300, but I’d be doing you a favor—”

Cal turns his head. Not aggressive. Just a small tilt.

“The price,” he says, voice low, even, “is firm.”

Silence. Real silence. The kind that’s not just quiet, but clear.

The buyer hesitates. Looks between us. Back at the bike.

Five minutes later, the bike is strapped into the back of the pickup. I can still feel the warmth of Cal’s hand on my elbow from when I tried to help load it and he stopped me with a shake of his head.

The cash is folded in my back pocket. But it's not the money I keep thinking about—it's the feel of his hand on my elbow, steady and sure. He didn’t speak, didn’t have to. Just that brief touch, offering support without question, reassurance without pressure. A quiet signal: I wasn’t on my own.

He walks right back to where I’m standing beside the spot where the bike used to be, buyer and truck already gone.

He glances toward my father again. Gives the smallest nod.

Then he turns fully to me.

“You alright?”

And I know it’s not about the sale.

It’s about me.

“Thank you,” I say, by way of an answer, my voice low. “He was… a lot.”

Cal nods once. Like it’s nothing. Like stepping in was as natural as breathing.

I don’t even realize my hands are shaking until I clasp them together in front of me, trying to still the movement. He notices. Of course, he notices.

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