"Learned from the best," I say, meaning it.
My stomach growls loud enough that Steel laughs. "Get some food in you before you pass out."
"Yeah, yeah." I head back toward the clubhouse, but the thought of sitting still again makes my skin crawl. "Actually, think I'll head home. Been a while since I cooked."
"Suit yourself." Steel's already moving toward another bike, completely absorbed.
I wash my hands quickly in the clubhouse bathroom, scrubbing the grease from under my nails. My reflection stares back at me. Dark hair that needs a trim, brown eyes that my mother used tosay looked too old for my face, and the shadow of stubble along my jaw. At twenty-four, I look older. Feel older too, most days.
The ride into town takes fifteen minutes, and I use every second of it to clear my head. Wind in my face, the rumble of my bike between my legs. This is when I feel most alive. Not like when I was a kid, trapped in bed while fever burned through me, and my parents' voices drifted up through the cheap floorboards.
*"I told you we should've taken him to the hospital again."*
*"We can't afford another hospital bill, Michael. You know that."*
*"So what, we just let him die?"*
*"Don't be dramatic. He's not dying. He's just sick. Kids get sick."*
*"He's always sick. Something's wrong with him."*
I shake off the memory, focusing on the present. That kid doesn't exist anymore. I made sure of it.
My house sits at the edge of town, a small rental that's nothing special but it's mine. No one telling me what to do or when to do it. No one looking at me like I'm a burden they're stuck with.
As I pull into my driveway, I notice the house next door looks different. The "For Rent" sign is gone, replaced by curtains in the windows. Someone moved in recently. Probably in the last couple days while I was spending nights at the clubhouse.
I kill my engine and swing off the bike, my boots crunching on the gravel. The neighbor's house stays quiet, no signs of life. Good. I'm not exactly looking to make friends.
Inside my house, I head straight for the kitchen. My stomach is seriously complaining now, demanding food after this morning'swork. I pull out eggs, bacon, and bread, setting everything on the counter.
I crack the eggs into the pan, watch them sizzle, flip the bacon. Simple. Straightforward. No hidden meanings or complicated emotions. I'm halfway through eating when shouting cuts through the quiet.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. The voices are coming from next door, loud enough that I can hear them clearly through my kitchen window.
"Ruby, stop being ridiculous! Open this goddamn door!"
"You can't hide from us forever!"
"We're family! We deserve to see him!"
A woman's voice, thin with fear but firm, responds. "I told you to leave! You're not taking him!"
I set down my fork and stand, moving toward the window. Through the glass, I can see three people on my neighbor's porch. Two older adults and a younger guy, maybe my age. They're all facing the door, their body language aggressive.
"Ruby, please!" The older woman's voice cracks. "We're your parents! We just want to help!"
"You kicked me out!" The response comes from inside the house, barely audible. "You called me a whore and threw me away!"
"We were upset," the older man says. "We made mistakes. But this isn't about us. It's about that baby. He needs a proper family."
I've heard enough bullshit manipulation tactics from my own parents to recognize them when I hear them.
"He has a family! Me!" The woman—Ruby—sounds on the verge of tears. "I'm his mother!"
"You're a child yourself," the younger guy says, and there's something cruel in his tone. "You can't raise a kid alone. Be reasonable."
"Fuck you, Marcus! You ran the second I told you I was pregnant!"
