She surprises me by taking it. By leaning in close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean—while I light it for her. She takes a drag like she’s done this before, exhales smoke toward the rafters.
“When did you start smoking?” I ask.
“I don’t. Not really.” She studies the cigarette like it’s a foreign object. “Just when I’m stressed. Or need my hands busy. Or—” She stops herself.
“Or when you’re about to tell me something you think I won’t like?”
Her laugh is sharp. Brittle.
I gesture to the Triumph. “She’s beautiful. Custom work?”
“Yeah.” Parker’s hand drifts to the seat, fingers tracing the copper detailing with obvious affection. “Bought her three years ago. Took me another year to get her exactly right.”
“You did the custom work yourself?”
“Most of it. Had a guy in Pasadena help with the paint, but the rest…” She shrugs. “Turns out I’m good with my hands when properly motivated.”
The innuendo hangs there, unintentional but impossible to ignore. I take a long drag instead of responding, studying her. The way she won’t quite meet my eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The white-knuckle grip on that cigarette.
“I didn’t know you rode,” I say finally.
“I didn’t. Not before.” Her hand drifts back to the bike. “Learned in California. There’s a lot that’s changed in six years.”
Yeah. No shit.
“Fair enough.” I push off the workbench and move closer to inspect the bike properly. The work is clean. Professional. “Who was unfortunate enough to teach you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I wasn’t that bad of a student when you three tried to teach me.”
“Says the worst student of all time.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “YouTube, mostly. Some guy at the shop where I bought her.” She takes another drag. “I wanted something that was mine. Something that reminded me of home without actually being home.”
“So you learned to ride.”
“So I learned to ride.” She stubs out the cigarette on the workbench, immediately looking guilty about it. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
“It’s fine.” I hand her my own half-finished smoke. She takes it automatically, and something about the casual intimacy of sharing makes my chest ache. “What else is in the POD?”
“Oh.” Color creeps into her cheeks. “Um. The boys’ bikes.”
“They ride? Aren’t they a little young?”
“I’m thecoolMom, not crazy,” she smiles. “They’re pedal bikes that look like motorcycles. Little replicas.” She’s rambling now, words tumbling over each other. “They saw mine and wanted their own, and I thought it’d be cute. Something we could do together…”
“Parker.” My voice cuts through her spiral. “Breathe.”
She does. One shaky inhale, then another.
“Can I see them?” I ask.
She hesitates, then nods. Leads me back to the POD where two small bikes are secured—pedal-powered things painted to look like miniature motorcycles, complete with fake chrome and custom paint jobs that match her Triumph. One in dark blue with silver accents. One in bright red with black trim.
They’re perfect. Thoughtful. The kind of thing a mother does when she wants to share what she loves with her children.
“Noah’s is the red one,” she says quietly. “He’s more adventurous. Wants to go fast, doesn’t care about falling. Liam’sis the blue. He’s careful. Wants to understand how everything works before he tries it.”
Noah. Liam. I’ve barely spoken to them, just that brief moment yesterday when Charles carried them away, but I can already picture it. The cautious one and the wild one. Balance.
