Page 32 of Let Me In

The house smells like dish soap and cold toast. Mom is at the table, flipping through a grocery flyer. She looks up—polite, but cautious. Her smile is thin, practiced. Her eyes bounce from him to me, and back again.

“Good morning,” she says carefully. “You must be Cal?”

She doesn’t say it unkindly. Just with the air of someone trying to understand the shape of a new variable. The weight of it.

Cal nods once, polite but not performative. “Morning, ma’am.”

He holds out a coffee and the bag. “Brought muffins too. Hope that’s alright.”

She doesn’t take it right away.

Then, slowly, she does. Still watching him. Still thinking.

Dad doesn’t say a word.

He’s by the garage door, half in, half out, leaning against the frame like it owes him something. His gaze flicks to the Chevelle, and that’s where it stays.

“That black Chevelle,” Dad says, still not looking at me. “Saw it last week. Thought it was you.”

Then, casually: “Is it all original? Matching numbers?”

He doesn’t comment on me. Doesn’t ask where we’re going. Just goes on, like I’m not even there.

Cal’s eyes shift. Just slightly. He registers it.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“Yes, sir,” Cal says simply. “She is.”

Then he turns back to me.

He holds the door open with one hand, the tray still balanced in the other like it’s no effort at all. Like making space for me is second nature.

“Ready?”

I nod. Grateful. Flustered. A little stunned.

I grab my bag from the hook by the door.

And as I step out beside him, I feel it—that strange weight of someone who sees it all.

And doesn’t look away.

The Chevelle humsbeneath us like something alive. The engine isn’t loud, not the way you’d think. It’s smooth. Deep. Like a steady breath you can feel in your chest.

He drives with one hand on the wheel. The other resting lightly near the shifter. Casual. Comfortable. Like the car is part of him.

I can’t help it. I glance over. Then ask, softly, “How long have you had it?”

He looks at me. Briefly. Then back to the road.

“Long time,” he says. “Since I was young. Before everything else.”

His voice shifts on that last part. Not heavy. Just a weight set down quietly.

I nod, fingers trailing along the door panel. “I figured it had history. The way you drive it—it’s not just a car. It listens to you.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Not surprise. But something close to softness.

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