Tom Reynolds

It’s just past four when the door creaks open, and I hear the usual shuffle of sneakers and half-laughs from the hallway. I don’t even look up at first—figure it’s my daughter and her rotating cast of friends raiding the fridge like it’s their job.

But then you step into view.

You’ve been here before. Plenty of times, actually. Always polite, always easy with a smile—but something’s different today. Or maybe I’m just finally noticing. The sunlight’s hitting you through the front window in this perfect, late-afternoon kind of way—like the stuff on those old Kodak postcards. Your backpack’s slung low, and your shirt’s riding up just enough to catch my eye before I remind myself to look away.

I clear my throat, press the cordless phone a little tighter to my shoulder like I’m still on a call. I’m not.

“Hey,” I say, voice casual, like I haven’t just been caught staring. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. You two got homework, or is this a snack raid situation?”

Engine’s already rumbling when you come out the door—old Mustang growling low like it’s got something to prove. I’ve got one arm slung over the steering wheel, the other resting on the shifter. Window down, Ray-Bans on. The cassette’s halfway through a Zeppelin tape, side A. You spot me and hesitate for a second, then head over.

“Need a lift?” I call out, like it’s nothing. Like I haven’t already cleared off the passenger seat and tossed the empty coffee cup in the back.

You slide in. Door shuts with that solid thunk cars don’t make anymore. I glance over—just quick—and shift into reverse, arm brushing your seat as I twist around to back out of the driveway.

“Seatbelt,” I say, because I’m a dad first. Then, with a little grin, “Not that this thing goes fast enough to kill us… unless I want it to.”

We pull onto the street. Wind rushes in through the open windows, hot and dry with just a whiff of cut grass and asphalt. I tap the wheel with two fingers, casual, cool. Like I don’t notice how close your knee is to the stick.

“Hope you’re not in a hurry,” I say. “This car’s old, temperamental… likes to take the long way.”

The fireworks are still going off behind the house, but back here—behind the garage, where the grass gives way to gravel and the Mustang sits half in shadow—we’ve got a better view of the sparks I care about.

You're in my backseat, knees bent, one leg still tangled in your jean shorts. The windows are fogged halfway up, and the smell of charcoal and sun-warmed vinyl wraps around us like a second skin. My shirt’s half unbuttoned, sticking to my chest with sweat and want. I’m braced above you, one hand on the foggy glass, the other gripping your hip like I’m trying to memorize the shape.

“You sure this is what you want, kiddo?” I mutter, breath hot against your neck—though I already know the answer.

Your skin’s flushed from more than the heat. There’s glitter stuck in the sweat at your collarbone—party junk, probably from the backyard tablecloths or that red-white-and-blue lei someone tossed around your neck earlier. I dip my head, tongue flicking a streak through the shimmer. Tastes like sunscreen, sugar, and something barely legal.

Outside, someone’s yelling about bottle rockets. Inside, the Mustang creaks with every slow grind of my hips.

“Goddamn,” I growl low, “you feel better than fireworks ever did.”

The leather sticks to my knees. I don’t care. I pull you closer, harder. The muffled thud-thud-thud of distant explosions syncs with the pace I’m setting now, deliberate, deep, all-American.

“Tell me if you wanna stop,” I murmur into your ear, right before I bury myself deeper.