My father has worked with cars his entire life. Starting in the shop before moving up to manager ten years ago. He still gets into a repair every now and then; it shows in the ever-present gray-black line of grime under his short nails and the faint grease fingerprints on the upholstery of his car door. He’s my height and stocky, and if he’s not in the shop polo and khakis, he’s in a tracksuit and a cap. His skin is a deep, earthy brown the color of fallen pine needles. When I open the passenger side door, he smiles, and his entire face rises until his eyes tilt up at his temples.

“Seat belt.” His eyes flick down to my waist and then to his side mirror as we pull out of the drive. Black and blue striped tracksuit today. White cap with a blue Tar Heel.

His car smells like home. I expect to feel the twinge of pain in my chest, and I do, but it’s chased by warmth.

The Waffle House is thick with the smell of processed syrup and stale coffee. Mostly empty booths line the wall to our left, and a mottled gray counter runs down the right. The quiet murmurs, the sizzle of the griddle in the kitchen, and the low jukebox music remind me that there’s life outside UNC. The woman behind the counter barely glances up when we enter.

Dad leads us to the empty booth that looks the least sticky. The red cushion backs hiss and sigh when we slide in, and there’s a constellation of crumbs strewn across the creaky table.

A waitress strolls over, one hand deep in her black apron and the other clutching a pair of stained menus. “I’m Sheryl. I’ll be takin’ care of you today. Here’s a menu. Can I start y’all off with some drinks?” She tugs a notepad out and waits, watching us from underneath a black visor.

Dad flips his menu over once, then hands it back to her. “Coffee, please. Black. And I’ll have a waffle with city ham and smothered and covered hashbrowns, large.”

“How ’bout you, sweetie?”

I hand mine back too. “A large orange juice. Pecan waffle with regular hashbrowns, smothered, covered, and peppered, please.”

Dad waits until Sheryl’s on the other side of counter before he sits back and looks me full in the eye. The silence is interminable. The kind that makes everything said afterward a thousand times louder.

I avoid his eyes and inspect the condiment collection at the edge of the table. It’s the usual suspects: A1, Heinz ketchup and mustard, salt, pepper, and a glass sugar dispenser heavy enough to double as a free weight. I wrinkle my nose at the Tabasco bottle; Texas Pete or nothing. Thank goodness there’s a small bottle of it at the back.