Ry, I swear to fucking god. If you were here right now, I’d punch you.
Charlotte hurriedly corrals me through the kitchen and out a set of French doors that takes us onto the back veranda. The backyard is more like an open expanse of land dotted by trees in the distance. A three-bay garage the size of a small house sits off to the left, a large vegetable garden next to it. Wildflowers bend in the breeze among the tall grass beyond.
The middle of the three garage bays is open. Marcus is hunched over the engine of a car, Christopher behind the wheel in the driver’s seat, their shouted conversation drowned out by the music blasting from overhead speakers. I recognize the songplaying. “Alive” by P.O.D. Ryder would have it on repeat when he drove.
I force my feet forward and step inside the garage that I helped Ry design.
“The Cutton boys and their cars. Welcome to the chaos,” Charlotte says with a smile.
For a moment, I can only stand there, my heart caught between past and present. The loss of Ry hits me hard as I look at them and see my dear friend in his two sons—one a man, the other straddling the cusp of adulthood.
“Marcus!” Charlotte shouts.
He straightens from under the hood and turns around. A wide grin splits his face. Fucking hell. I would swear it was Ryder standing there, not his eldest son.
“Holy shit,” Marcus says, eyes wide with disbelief.
“I know!” Charlotte replies, hopping on her toes.
He crosses the space in a few quick strides and extends a grease-smudged hand.
“Shit, sorry.” He offers me the shop towel tucked into the back waistband of his shorts.
“No worries.”
Charlotte grabs a remote from a nearby stool and turns the volume down on the music. “Chris, get your butt out of the car. Uncle Fallon is here.”
Uncle Fallon.Hearing her say it again twists the pain lodged in my chest.
Unlike Marcus’s open demeanor, Christopher’s is more cautious. He slowly slides out of the driver’s seat and straightens to his full height, which is a couple of inches taller than his older brother. He has more of Elizabeth in him. Same eyes and facial features, but his coloring and build are all Ry.
“Hey,” he says, his tone clipped. He doesn’t offer a hand, just folds his arms across his chest.
I’m not offended by his wariness. I was just like that at his age. Mistrusting of the world and of people’s motives.
“You must be Christopher.”
“Chris,” he flatly corrects me. “Where’s Mom?”
Charlotte leans way over to the side and peers out of the garage bay. “She was right behind us…I thought.”
“I’ll go check on her.” Chris brushes past me but stops. “Don’t break her heart. She’s been through enough.”
Charlotte smacks his shoulder. “Why do you always have to be such a dick? You had no problem with her going to Italy. In fact, you told her?—”
“Shut up, Charlie.”
“No,youshut up,” she says, chasing after him, their bickering intensifying.
Marcus glances at me apologetically. “You’ll have to excuse them. They live to get on each other’s nerves. And Chris…well, he’s very protective of Mom. It’s been hard since—” He shrugs without finishing.
“I get it.”
Chris’s words repeat in my head, a reminder of the fragile ground I stand on. I feel the weight of Ryder’s absence pressing on me—not as a loss, but as a responsibility.
Marcus’s stare follows me as I saunter over to the car and check out the engine he was working on. Under the hood is a monstrous 6.2-liter supercharged HEMI V8. This beast is built for speed.
“Yours?” I ask.
