“Next time you go for a forward cross, you’ll want to transfer your weight from your back foot to the front foot as you extend your arm. It generates more power.”
He barks out a laugh, a grin splitting his cheeks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
A hot eddy of wind funnels between the cars, and I push a hand through my hair to tame it back down. “I also wanted to explain why I couldn’t come when you called. Liz deserved to hear it from me first.”
His tense shoulders drop. “You talked to her?”
“A little while ago.”
A car pulls in and slows down next to us, its passenger window rolled down. “Where do you want me to park this? Cam said he won’t be able to get to it today. He needs to finish the Chevy first,” a guy says.
“I’ll start on it once I’m done with the Honda. Take it to bay five.”
The guy lifts his chin and slowly drives off.
“You’re busy. We can talk later.”
“We can talk now. Come on in and have some coffee,” Marcus insists.
His no-nonsense tone has me following him. “Sure.”
Taking me through the garage, the familiar scents of grease, metal, and gasoline stir old memories as we enter. The cavernous space echoes with the occasional burst of laughter from the mechanics at work. Overhead lights reflect off thepolished concrete floor, streaked with grease stains and tire marks, a testament to years of hard work. A couple of cars are lifted on hydraulic jacks, and a few custom-built dirt bikes are parked along the side wall, each one bearing the bold, colorful decals of the garage’s motocross team and sponsorships. The team logo is also painted across the back wall in hues of bold red and black, and a few banners hang from the rafters, depicting action shots of riders midair, caught in moments of fearless acrobatics.
The garage seems bigger—different—but the soul of it remains the same. The place is alive with energy, the kind of controlled chaos I used to live in every summer with Ry when we would hang out and talk while he worked.
As my sneakers scuff against the floor, tracing the same paths I walked as a teenager, my gaze drifts to a familiar corner of the shop where Ry’s Hellcat used to sit, its hood often propped open as he tinkered with one thing or another in its engine. Those summer days come rushing back. Nostalgic days when Ry dreamed of racing, and I was content just being here with my best friend.
“Place looks good,” I comment when we get to the back office.
Marcus shuts the door and gestures for me to take a seat in the armchair across from the desk. I notice a neatly folded pile of blankets and a pillow sitting on the love seat.
“You sleep here?”
Marcus rounds the desk and sits down in the executive chair. “Sometimes. I still live at home with Mom.”
I prop a bent leg over a knee and take in my surroundings. This used to be Randy’s office. I assume it was Ry’s, too. Framed photographs adorn the walls, along with a multitude of trophies that sit proudly on the floor and on the shelves of the bookcase.
Knowing I’m overstepping, I ask anyway. “Because you want to?”
“Because that’s where I’m needed.”
Our eyes meet at his not-so-veiled insinuation. “You look just like him.”
His light copper eyes sadden. “It’s hard for Mom to be around me sometimes, especially on the bad days…because I resemble him.”
Jesus.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her or for Ry…or for you.” Steeling my nerves and hoping for the strength to get it out, I say, “I let down everyone I love because I chose alcohol over everything else. I’m an alcoholic.” Marcus’s eyes widen slightly. “The day you called, I had just checked myself into rehab. The weeks of detox were bad, but the intense therapy that followed, the self-reflection, and owning my fuckups were worse. I wanted to be in a good place when I came back. I thought I had more time. When I got out, it was too late. Ry was gone. I spent that first night of freedom getting drunk at some biker bar. It hadn’t even been five minutes after I walked out the door before I was heading straight for the nearest bar. I put myself back in the program the next day and didn’t leave until I knew I was better.” I fiddle with the medallion on my necklace. “Over one year sober.”
Marcus sits back in the chair, a look of sympathy mixed with understanding marring his expression. “Shit, man. I didn’t know.”
“No one did. Not even Jules.” It was a battle I had to do on my own. Prove to myself that I could.
“And you told Mom all this?”
“Yes.”
He roughs a hand over his face and stands up. “Dad wanted you to have these.” He picks up a banker’s box from the floor in the corner and offers it to me.
