I’ve been lost my whole life. I’ve always lived in the shadow of who other people want me to be. I never even realized how adrift I’d become until everything happened.
And now, I’m trying to figure out who I am and who I want to be, not even because it’s what I want. But because I owe it to Wren.
I’m terrified I’m never going to be my own person. I’m terrified I’m not strong enough, brave enough, or spirited enough to find out who I’m supposed to be. I’m terrified I’ll hate who I really am just as much as I hate who I am currently.
Rook’s deep voice snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. “You start by deciding what you want out of life. So, dove, what is it you want your life to look like?”
I’m silent for a long moment as I consider his question, never having thought about what I actually want before. “I want to be… free. I want to find contentment and happiness and laughter. And I want to leave the past behind.”
I guess that’s the crux of what I want from life. I want to be free. Free of other people’s expectations. Free of people dictating my life. And free of everyone who just sees me as a pawn.
But I don’t know if I ever will be.
If my family has their way, I’ll be dragged back to the same prison that turned my sister into a shell of herself. And I know I don’t have the fire to last nearly as long as she did. I’ll be a hollowed-out husk within months if I’m forced to go back there.
“You have a damn good start right there. You go after that life you want—fearlessly, ruthlessly, and courageously. And whileyou’re working toward what’s important to you, you’ll discover things that light a fire inside you. You might find out you’re passionate about helping people, traveling the world, making things, or whatever else. You’ll find it, Lark. I know you will.”
I have to look away before he sees how much his probably offhand words and his belief in me means. His belief that I’ll figure it out. His belief that I’ll one day know who I am. His belief that I’m capable of achieving the life I want.
Rook doesn’t push me to say anything. He just lets me tumble his words around in my mind in companionable silence. I don’t know how long I’m mulling things over before the quiet starts to be uncomfortable, and I start fidgeting.
“What’s your favorite color?” Rook asks out of the blue, breaking the awkward silence.
“Green,” I answer reflexively. “Yours?”
His lips tip up into a half smile at my answer. “Red. If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?”
“Australia. Because of the Emu War. I need to meet the flightless birds who won a war against humans and all their modern military technology. All the other wildlife there sounds cool too. Where would you go?”
Rook barks out a laugh. “I’ve never heard of that, but now I absolutely need to learn more. I’d go to Rwanda. It’s supposed to be absolutely beautiful. And I wanna learn more about how people rebuilt so much stronger after something as devastating as their genocide. What’s your favorite bike?”
“ZX-6R or the ’02 YZ250. What’s yours?” My old two-stroke dirt bike sounded like a bunch of bees were shoved in a jar and shaken up, but I loved it so much. I don’t think I’ve ever had as much fun as I did in the dirt on that machine.
Rook tips his head back to stare at the stars. “I’ve always had a soft spot for Fireblades. I used to have an ’07 to fuck around on, and I still miss it. Favorite place you’ve ever ridden?”
I give him the first answer that comes to mind, and that’s how the next couple of hours go.
Time passes in a blur of talking and laughing about everything and nothing until the sun comes up. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as light as I do sitting here, watching a breathtaking sunrise with a man who makes it feel like things are going to be okay. Perhaps not today, but someday.
CHAPTER 9
LARK
My legs swing from my perch on the workbench as I glare down at my sketchbook. I’ve been trying to capture the place Rook showed me for the better part of the last week, and no matter what I do, it’s always slightly off. It’s driving me insane.
With a huff, I toss my sketchbook to the side and shove my pencil into the pocket of my borrowed basketball shorts. It’s way too hot out here in the garage to wear my jeans, so Coop let me have a pair of his shorts that are comically long on me.
Rubbing my gritty eyes from staring too long at my drawing, I look up to see Coop still working on his Kawasaki ZX-10R, the older sibling to my bike. He’s shirtless, sweaty, and covered in black smudges of grease, which is basically his uniform for working on his machines.
My phone buzzing snags my attention. When I pick it up and read the text, my blood turns to ice in my veins.
Unknown number
My patience is wearing thin. Come home now, and your punishment will be less severe. Make me come find you, and you’ll regret it, birdie.
I resist the urge to throw my phone across the garage. And I barely stop myself from gagging at the horrendous name my ex-fiancé, Andrew, insisted on calling me, despite my objections.
How the fuck does he keep finding my number? I’ve changed it at least six times to six different area codes in the six months I’ve been down here. But, like clockwork, I get a text from him every four weeks.
