A display beside it told the father's story.
Engineer.
Prototype supervisor.
Designer.
Owner.
The documentation credited his contributions carefully, avoiding claims that could not be proven.
The Woman insisted on that.
“Truth doesn't need exaggeration.”
The Single Dad smiled when she said it.
She had learned his language.
At the unveiling, journalists surrounded her.
“What do you think it's worth?”
“Will you sell?”
“Is the seven-million estimate accurate?”
“Will you pursue compensation from the manufacturer?”
The Woman answered none of those first.
Instead:
“My father kept this car for almost sixty years.”
“For most of that time, I thought it represented everything that kept him away from me.”
She looked toward the prototype.
“I was wrong about some things.”
“Right about others.”
“My father loved machines.”
“Sometimes he hid inside work.”
“Sometimes that hurt people.”
“But he also created things worth remembering.”
“This car is one of them.”
The Single Dad stood behind the crowd with his Daughter.
The Daughter whispered:
“She's nervous.”
“How do you know?”
“She keeps touching her bracelet.”
The Single Dad smiled.
The Daughter looked at him.
“You should stand with her.”
“She doesn't need me.”
The Daughter rolled her eyes.
“That wasn't what I said.”
Nine years old.
Still terrifying.
The Woman finally looked through the crowd.
Saw him.
Her expression changed slightly.
He stepped closer.
After the press conference, they stood beside the prototype alone for a few minutes.
The Woman exhaled.
“I hate cameras.”
“You're good at them.”
“I hate them professionally.”
He nodded.
She looked at the display.
“My father would probably complain about the wording.”
“Absolutely.”
“He’d correct the suspension diagram.”
“Definitely.”
She smiled.
Then grew quiet.
“Do you think he'd be proud?”
The Single Dad considered.
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You didn't even know him.”
“I know engineers.”
She laughed.
He continued.
“And I know you.”
The words stayed between them.
The Woman looked up.
The Single Dad looked down.
Months of unspoken attraction had become impossible to pretend away.
She stepped closer.
“So what happens now?”
“With the car?”
“No.”
The Single Dad understood.
He smiled slightly.
“I don't know.”
“You usually know.”
“Not about this.”
She looked at his grease-scarred hands.
Then took one.
“I’ve spent most of my life making decisions before anyone else can.”
“I noticed.”