Stepping down from what feels like a thousand feet above the ground after getting ice cream, I get out of Jack's truck and land with a thud that sends a jolt up my legs. Jack gets out of his own side and walks around to me, settling his arms naturally around my waist as he pouts.

"Are you sure you can't come over, babe?"

"You know my dad wants me home, and you have practice with the guys."

"I'd skip it for you."

"We both know you wouldn't."

He chuckles and swoops his head down to kiss me. "It's the thought that counts, though, right?" he asks, tapping my nose with his. "I'll see you tomorrow morning with my famous blueberry pancakes. I know they're your favorite. Love you."

Jack hops back into the truck, and then loops around the small fountain in my driveway before driving straight out and back onto the road, his diesel engine making the ground shake. He roars out of sight, blasting some sort of music from his speakers, and I head to my front door.

My house is not new and, compared to Jack's house, as well as those of most of his friends, it could be considered small. To those on the poor end of town, however, it would be on the larger end of real estate.

It's a brick, three-story home with stark black shutters and white columns that decorate the large, stone-finished front porch. Just above the porch lives a beautiful yet tiny balcony that the second-floor master leads out to, and there is one smaller balcony that comes off of the back of the house on the third floor, my room. Our driveway extends for nearly half a mile, flowing from the road through our bright green yard, accentuating how large our property is, and ends at a beautiful black fountain placed in the middle of an array of yellow and red flowers that make up a T for Tucker, our last name.

I have loved growing up here. My neighborhood is friendly and I could ride my bike to and from old friends' houses when I was a kid, seeing other modest houses and realizing how fortunate my family is. But does it really matter where you live as long as you are able to call it home?

Wow, my philosophy class this morning must have really gotten to me.

As I walk inside, I call out that I'm home and I'm greeted by my mother, who is sitting on the couch in the den watching some competitive cooking show. Our den is filled with a wraparound tan-colored leather sectional, a large flat-screen TV settled comfortably above our mantle, and beautiful paintings that intermingle with the pictures of our family that line the walls. The room is completed with my dad's dark-blue and red plaid recliner, which he refuses to get rid of.

"Hey, Scarlet, you're getting home late," my mom observes. "Long day?"

"Jack and I got ice cream after school. How was your day?"

"Same old, learned a few new recipes." She nods at the cooking channel playing on the TV. "I figured you'd like to try one out with me."

"Oh! What type of recipe?"

Taking a spot next to her as we talk, I throw my feet up on the ottoman and kick my shoes onto the floor next to it. My mom is nothing short of gorgeous, and if you didn't see the love between her and my father and didn't know how unbelievably smart she is, you might consider her a trophy wife. She has shoulder-length brown hair with naturally lighter streaks running through it. Her eyes are perfectly proportional to the rest of her face and are a light shade of brown. And her smile is the softest smile you will ever see on anyone. After everything my family has been through, my mom has proven how strong she is. She's had the hardest time of us all, but she has never let life's tragedies impact her love for me and my father. With some parents it's hard to tell what they looked like back in their glory days, but I think my mom is still living hers.

Just as we finish discussing our new recipe, the front door opens and my dad walks in, his suit jacket draped over his arm and his dress shirt wrinkled from the day's work. He looks tired from his no doubt long and tiring day at the office, but once he sees me and my mom, his tired eyes light up and he instantly smiles.

My dad is the perfect match for my mom. Her beauty could have gotten the attention of any guy she wanted, but she settled for my father. He has a contagious laugh, caring actions, and a determination to live life to the fullest. That would be hard for any girl to turn away. He's not the most attractive of men, with his receding hairline, black hair already thinning, and a slight beer belly growing on him, but he has beautiful blue eyes that draw her in and an amazing, caring personality to seal the deal.

"There they are, my two favorite girls in the whole world."

He walks over to my mom and sets a sweet kiss on her lips and then ruffles my hair like I'm still his little five-year-old.

"What was on your agenda today?" my mom asks.

"I just came from the store on Avenue F." He sighs as he sits down on his decades-old recliner, kicks off his work shoes, and throws them in a pile with my own that I'm sure has my mom preparing a scolding for us. "Archie asked if you wanted any more hours, sweetheart," he says to me.

My attention perks up at his words and I find myself instantly agreeing to the opportunity to work some more hours.

My parents own an expanding chain of auto shops, and I work part time in the closest one to us, on Avenue F. It was the first-ever location for the business. Thanks to my dad's countless hours of hard work and my mother's unwavering support, Tucker Auto now spans the entire Midwest, and we're trying to expand to locations on the East Coast to become nationwide.

Archie is my boss, as well as the head mechanic. He doesn't have much of a brain for business but he can fix nearly any car brought his way. He and my dad have a great bond, because although my dad is the CEO of the entire company, he loves to stay in touch with every store, Archie's especially, since that location was the first one for the business.

"You think you can help Archie later?" Dad asks, putting the chair back and lifting the footrest with a relaxed sigh.

"I would love to—you know I'd never turn down an extra hour or two at the shop."

My dad grins. "How was your day, sweetheart?"

"Same old, good and full of time spent with Jack."

"Why don't you invite him over for dinner? I can talk to him about what his game plan is, see if that coach of yours is doing his job right."

This is Texas. High school coaches take their jobs as seriously as NFL coaches vying for a Super Bowl win.

"He would but he's going to be at the field getting in extra practice with the guys."

"Another time then."

My parents fell in love with Jack the moment they met him. He charmed them with his passionate talk of pursuing football, his southern manners, and words of affection for me. They could easily see how happy he made me. With everything that had happened just before he and I met they were appreciative of someone who could get me smiling again.

That's one of the reasons I fell for Jack so hard. He was the only light I saw when I was stuck in a tunnel of darkness.

Standing up and stretching, I grab my backpack and head upstairs to do the little bit of homework I have. Passing the vacant room sends a shiver down my spine and reminds me of the sadness that ate at my heart before Jack came along. This used to be Max's room.

The phone rings somewhere in the distance, and my dad comes up the stairs behind me a moment later. "You okay, sweetheart?" my dad says.

It's been three years since my brother passed, and I've learned to mask the pain. It's what one has to do in order to move on. I'm only seventeen; I can't live the rest of my life hanging on to the sadness Max's death instilled in my life.

"Yeah, I'm all right."

Dad stares at me for a moment or two longer, judging whether or not to believe me. I learned how to fake happiness, and then Jack came to remind me I didn't have to by keeping my mind off of the troubles in my life. There were still ways to grasp happiness, and he was one of them when we first met.

"Archie just called about a car he's too busy to fix. Do you want to come with me, and we can have a look?" He's already changed into jeans and a T-shirt.

It's great not having to worry about money because your family owns a successful business, but the kind of dedication it takes to run a big company leads to one's parents rarely being around. I was in middle school when the business took off and my dad was constantly out at meetings and flying states away for work purposes, and I rarely saw him. When I did, I only ever saw the business side of him. I didn't get to see the fun, ripped T-shirt wearing, dad-jean sporting, goofy parent that I had grown up with.

He wore a suit every day and never wore it with a smile. But after my brother passed away during my freshman year of high school, my dad realized how little he was actually around and started staying home more and more, and morphed back into the dad I remembered as a little kid.

"Scarlet?" my dad asks.

"I'd love to come," I say. I've been going to the shop with my dad since I could stand on my own two feet. It's like a second home to me, and Archie like an uncle.

Despite all of the choices of cars to drive to the shop, my dad chooses his old pickup, which I suppose keeps him tied to his country roots. It looks odd in our magnificent driveway, the rusting red paint job chipping away, but neither of us care as we drive down the road to the shop. Dad keeps the windows down, letting the warm fall air whip my hair around, so that he can rest his arm out the window.

"Look there, Scar," Dad says, pointing to a house I have seen thousands of times. "That's the house—"

"That you grew up in. You've only told me that every single time we drive to the shop."

"It's important. I grew up there and opened a shop close enough to walk to, stayed home to save up while I worked on my business, got enough money to eventually move out, met your mom, and was able to slowly start expanding while raising two kids."

My parents have always taught me the importance of a good work ethic.

My dad taught me how to change a tire when I was ten. After getting home from the shop, I boasted to Max that I knew how to do something he didn't, only to learn my dad had taught him when he was eight and he knew ten times the number of auto repairs I did.

After that, I would spend every moment I could at the shop watching the three of them work—Archie, my dad, and Max. Once the shop expanded, I rarely worked with the three of them, so I cherished that time while I had it. Eventually, I forced my way in and then they had to teach me what they were doing. I wouldn't let them get anything done if they didn't.

Since then, my dad has only challenged me further. He let me work at the shop when I was thirteen years old, first with Max and Archie as their helper until I was promoted to a trustworthy mechanic who didn't need help from her big brother.

Archie grins when he sees my dad, a handshake ensues, and then he pulls me in for a side-hug.

"There's my favorite little worker," he says with a thick, Texan accent, ruffling my hair just like my dad had earlier. "This car is causing me a headache. It's constantly slipping as the owner switches gears."

"You check the transmission fluid? Sounds like it may be low," I say.

"That was my first thought too. I checked, it's fine. I can't seem to figure out what it may be, and I haven't got time to do the deep dive, got three other cars racked up and owners that'll be here any minute."

My dad glances at me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. "All right, Scar, what's the solution?"

Together, he and I lift the hood and start digging around to see if maybe there's something Archie missed. It creaks as I open it, a comforting squeak that bellows throughout the shop as I prop it up. Dad goes to grab us some gloves, and the dusty scent of them fills my senses as he tosses me my own beaten-up pair.

I know my dad likes coming to the shop to work on cars like he used to; the business side of owning auto shops means he deals with numbers and corporate officials. He doesn't get a whiff of the rubber scent of the garage, to worry about Mom yelling at him for getting grease and oil on his clothes, or hear the satisfying roar of an engine he fixed. No, he just sees our customers as dollar signs on a spreadsheet and sinks back into the stiff, business style.

He's already got an oil stain on his ratty T-shirt, and his forehead is crinkled as he tugs at a wrench to get into the problem. My own gray jumpsuit gains a matching stain the more we work on the transmission, and eventually my forehead is dusted with sweat and I have hair falling out of my loose ponytail.

"You figure it out?" Dad asks.

I know why he asked. He's diagnosed the problem, and he's challenging me to find it as quickly as he has.

"Not quite yet."

"Look here," he says, stepping closer to me as he points down at the spark plug. "Notice anything odd?"

"It looks normal to me? The terminal nut is perfectly intact."

"Look again."

He's right. Though the terminal is in fine condition, the area around it, known as the corrugations, is corroded.

"How did I not notice before . . ." I sigh.

"Don't worry, Scarlet, you would have gotten there. It's important to check even what you least expect, remember that."

"So simple I didn't even think to look either," Archie says. "Thanks, boss, easy fix."

Dad removes his gloves and tosses them on the table in the corner of the shop, dusting his hands off on his jeans.

"Keep up the good work here, Archie. Let me know if you have any other problems."

We head back home just as the sun begins to set and Dad keeps the windows down in the truck. The sun sets beyond the fields, setting a golden shadow over the town. We pass Dad's childhood home just as the last of the sunlight disappears, but I don't need the sun to know what every blade of grass looks like or to see the bump in the road as we turn into our neighborhood. I know this town too well; it's small enough for me to memorize everything about it. Small enough for memories to be tied to every street, every building, every person.

Dad pulls into our driveway, winding around the fountain in the middle, and we head back inside where Mom has made dinner. The savory scent of oven-roasted chicken drifts through the hall as we enter the house. After dinner, I make my way to my room to finish my homework and get ready for bed, noting a text from Jack reminding me to prepare for tomorrow's pep rally. A perfectly normal day.