“Did you want to go out and get Chinese?”he asked.
She didn’t answer.
She put her hand to his chest, but she did it watching herhand, not him.
She then traced her fingernail through the bottom, outsideedge of his Chaos patch in a weird way like she was copying a line.
Still, he thought he read what she was doing so he assuredquietly, “I’m past what you said about bikers too, Georgie.”
She tipped her head back.
“Your dad made this scratch.”
Dutch stilled, and asked, “What?”
“This scratch.”She looked down and traced it again, thenback to him.“It happened when your dad had this jacket.”
He stared at her.
She gave him a small smile that was a little wobbly.
“I asked your mom about it the other night.I didn’t thinkshe’d remember it, seeing as it’s a tiny little thing, and she probably wasn’teven around when it happened.Maybe didn’t even notice it.But she did.Shesaid she couldn’t share precisely how it happened, but it happened when yourdad took it off and tossed it aside when, uh…you know, they were—”
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“He saw it and he was upset that the patch was damaged.Shechecked it out and assured him it’d be okay.It was worse on the leather, buthe buffed it out so it didn’t look that bad and you can barely notice it,unless you’re looking.”
He’d noticed it.
But he’d been looking.
He didn’t think to ask about it.
But Georgiana Traylor, Ace Reporter did.
And now he knew.
Now he knew.
He wore that cut every day, he wore his fatherevery day,and now he knew what made part of that cut.
“Jag got his bike,” he shared, his voice strange, hollow,far away.
“Yeah?”she asked, shifting closer, probably because of hisvoice.
“We had to pick between us, who got his cut, who got hisbike.We couldn’t.Hound helped us.We both wanted the cut.”
“I can see that.”
“But then, before Ma handed them over, she kissed Dad’s bikewith red lipstick.She told us she’d said goodbye and we could come get ourdad’s stuff.We went right over.We both saw that mark, like, at the exact sametime.Like it spoke to us.I don’t think either of us said anything for aboutfive minutes.We didn’t move.We couldn’t tear our eyes off that kiss.Once wepulled our shit together, I swear to fuck, Jag protected that mark witheverything that was him until he could get it sealed under a clearcoat.Andwhen I got the cut, I feltkindaguilty I got it,since I knew Jag wanted it, and I had more of Dad than he did, even if itwasn’t a lot.But when Ma did what she did, I wanted the bike because, with hermark on it, it was both of them.You know?”
She nodded.“Yeah.I know.”
“I couldn’t say anything.Talk about a switch.The decisionhad been made.But he’s my little brother.He barely remembers him.I do.Ihave that.He doesn’t.I feel that for him because Dad was sucha Dad.I remember he’d make us peanut butter and chocolate chip pancakes every Sunday.I remember how long his legs seemed, like they went on for miles, when he layin bed beside me, reading me a book before I went to sleep.I remember how he’dstare at Ma’s legs when she walked around the kitchen in shorts with this smileon his mouth I didn’t get, because I was a little kid, but it made me feel safeand it made me know how much he loved her.I have all that.Jag doesn’t.And Ifeel that.Ifeelit.So I couldn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, honey,” she said softly.“I totally get that.”
“It’s weird, a five-year-old remembering all that.”
