Wyatt shakes his head, and his voice cracks when he speaks. “No, you’re my fucking brother, West.”
It’s more than I thought I’d ever hear from him, a bigger apology than I could’ve hoped for, and emotion swells in me at the meaning behind the words. I hear what he’s not saying.
He pulls me in for an actual hug, not even a bro hug. For once it feels like we really are brothers in every sense.
Pulling back, he turns around to give me a second to wipe my eyes, and I’m thankful for it. After a moment, he clears his throat again and speaks, voice thick. “If you guys aretogethertogether, maybe you should, like, bring her to family dinner and shit.” His booted foot toes the ground, scuffing along the concrete flooring.
“That you saying that, or your better half?” I ask.
“Both.”
I’ll bet my Charger his wife sent him in today with the order to invite Amelia to family dinners and make shit right with me or he’s sleeping in the chicken coop, but still, progress is progress.
“I’ll ask her then.”
“Good.”
“Good,” I echo.
Even the caveman in front of me has to feel how awkward this is.
“Thanks for taking care of the shop,” he mutters, trying to branch out into using more than one syllable at a time, unfamiliar territory for him.
This is probably about two months’ worth of dialogue for him, he might need to go on vocal rest after this.
His affliction must be contagious, because all I say is, “Yeah.”
Wyatt takes a few steps, looking around the garage, like a safe conversation topic might be hiding in plain sight. Hands in his pockets, he finally says, “Got a text from Ronnie over the weekend. He’s giving up on fixing his old motorbike, I think he was holding out hope I’d be able to help him on the weekends, but with the baby, and Gonzo being gone… Anyway, he wanted to see if I could fit it in here.” Wyatt looks around the shop, the vehicles in every direction, holding his hands out, like it speaks for itself. “You got time in your?—”
I can practically hear him biting back words that would normally come naturally, something scathing like “busy schedule,” to play nice.
“—life to fit that job in for me?” His natural inclination to be a prick must win out, because he tacks on, “Or do you only work on vehicles for people you’re fucking?”
My eyes narrow on him in warning, and he holds up his hands. “Below the belt, I’m sorry.”
I flip him off. He chuckles, the air lightening instantly, which is new for us so I keep it going.
“If either of us are fucking Ronnie, it’s definitely not me. I’ve heard the man’s poetry about your dick,” I say, laughing. “And you could do worse in a best friend. He’s like your junk’s personal hype man.”
Now he flips me off. “Dear Lord, don’t remind me of his lack of boundaries. I still won’t camp with him.” Wyatt shakes his head, and his scruff twitches. “Listen, I’ll pay you, obviously. But I don’t really have time for the job with all this.” He waves a hand around the garage at all of the vehicles waiting for service.
I think over the offer, trying not to be persuaded by the lifting in my chest at the thought of working on bikes again. Before I left town, it’s what I thought I’d end up doing with my life. I have a good time with most things I do, but shit, things with smallengines are just more fun to work on than anything else that pays legally.
“Besides,” he says gruffly, talking to the floor more than me. “You’re better at small engines anyway.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say loudly, cupping one hand around my ear. “Think you’re gonna need to repeat that, possibly on video.”
“I’m not saying it again,” he mutters, but I could swear his lips are twitching beneath all that scruff. “Are you gonna take the job or not?”
I put my hand out for his, and he claps his palm into mine.
“Yeah, bro. I’m taking the job.”
TWENTY
AMELIA
Chickens squawk, zipping through an elaborate fenced-in maze among the bright grass of Wyatt and Rory’s immense backyard, as I make my way to the picnic table.
