Later, when the bar finally empties and the night quiets, I head home. Upstairs to my room, I let the silence of my home consume me. I strip off my clothes and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
I could go. That’s the dangerous thought.
I could throw a bag together, tell Country Boy I need a few days, and point my bike west. Smoke would grin like Christmas came early. The road would open up, wide and forgiving.
And Arkansas would be waiting.
Danae would be there with tired eyes and steady hands and a life that doesn’t bend just because I want it to. A life that needs consistency, not a man who leaves his name behind like an afterthought.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, jaw tight.
Wanting something doesn’t mean you get to take it. I learned that a long time ago.
Sleep comes eventually, restless and thin. Even in dreams, I’m riding, road unspooling ahead of me, horizon always just out of reach. And every mile I put between us only makes the distance feel louder.
The road has always been my answer. Tonight, it feels like the question instead.
The night comes and goes with rest being an illusion. Morning is here and I need to get out of this empty space I call home.
Honey’s Hot Rods smells like fancy waxes and feels like home. Honey keeps the place cleaner than most shops, but you can’t scrub a building’s soul out. Not when men have poured their lives into it one busted knuckle at a time. There are oil stains on the concrete, parts on tables waiting to be used, skid marks where Stud likes to use cars to sign signatures on the pavement and call it a test drive, and all the general nuances that make it normal, comfortable.
I like it here for the same reason I like ledgers. Things make sense in a shop.
If something’s broken, you can find the part that failed. You can fix it. You can put it back together and know exactly what it’ll do the next time you turn the key.
People aren’t built like that.
My Thunderbird sits on the lift like a promise. Cherry red paint dulled by time, chrome still proud in places. A ’56 Ford—real steel, real weight, real presence. She’s not a daily driver. She’s a project. A long-term love affair with a machine that demands attention and gives it back in purrs and growls.
I’ve got the hood up and my hands buried in the engine bay when Raff walks in, wiping his palms on a rag, grin already cocked like he’s got a joke loaded.
“You been here all morning?” he asks.
I don’t look up. “Yeah.”
“Country Boy know you’re cheating on your ledger with a car?” he jokes.
“Country Boy knows I need something that doesn’t talk back,” I mutter the honest truth.
Raff laughs and leans against the tool chest, watching me work. He’s got that calm lately—different than before. Like his edges have softened around something steady. Josie. The baby coming. A life he’s building that doesn’t involve sleeping with one eye open.
I envy him for it. I also don’t understand it.
I tighten a bolt, then shift to the next. My hands know what to do even when my head doesn’t.
Raff’s gaze drifts over my shoulder. “You still fighting that fuel line?”
“Fuel line’s not the problem anymore, changed that.” I state. “It’s the carb. She’s not getting with the program and can’t find the spark, air to fuel ratio to fire away.”
“Like you?” Raff says.
I shoot him a look.
He lifts both hands, smiling wider. “Just saying, brother. You look like you’ve haven’t found the calm to chaos to freedom ratio for weeks. All smoke, no air.”
I go back to work. “You always this poetic when you’re avoiding real work?”
“Real work’s overrated,” he replies. “That’s why I became a fabricator turned real estate investor instead of a therapist. And the money’s better. My books man told me so.”
