I was going to choke or hyperventilate or worse—break down in body-racking sobs—if I stayed in that kitchen, so I found myself in the truck speeding toward the shop.
CHAPTER 37
When I got to the shop, I flipped on all the lights and stared at the few vehicles in the otherwise empty main garage bay, being assaulted by a potential future where I was taken from all of it. Taken, while Dad did nothing to stop it.
Sweat pricked my forehead and neck until the heat demanded my attention. The fans whirled to life and the AC kicked on. Moving was good, so I kept at it. I dropped my iPod into the dock and vanished under the hood of my Spitfire.
I worked straight through dinner, stopping finally to inhale something from the fridge. Shadows crept across the floor as I worked, claiming more and more of the shop until they consumed the last sliver of sunshine.
Someone tapped my foot and I sat up so suddenly that I nearly knocked myself out. I fought off unconsciousness and rolled out from under the Spitfire, hoping to see Dad.
But it was Claire.
“Hey.” I rubbed what was sure to turn into a spectacular goose egg on my forehead. “Make a noise or something next time.”
“Sorry,” Claire said. “It’s kind of loud in here.”
With the fans and music blaring, I was watching her lips more than actually hearing her. I walked over and turned off my iPod. “Better?”
“Much. And that explains why you didn’t hear me calling you all day.”
Claire always looked a little out of place in the garage. Too clean. Too bright. She was searching for somewhere to sit that wouldn’t immediately destroy her white eyelet sundress. There was a wheeled stool in the corner that was half duct tape and half tattered red vinyl that she seemed to be considering before noticing the Spitfire.
“Oh, hey! It’s got tires.” Claire smiled at me. “It looks like an actual car now.” She circled the vehicle, running her hand along the door. “When do we get to paint it?”
No part of me felt like laughing, but I did because of course she would ask about paint. “Another week, maybe two.” And then my heart sank again. There was so much that could happen in two weeks.
Misreading my expression, Claire came over and rubbed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about Sean. You guys bounce back, you always do. And this…” She gestured to the Spitfire. “It’s going to be amazing when you’re finished with it.”
I turned away and pretended to study something under the hood until I could slow the panicked rush of my blood. Because that was what it was. I was frightened of the things I knew and terrified by the things I didn’t. And there was too much space and silence in the garage. I started puffing my cheeks out and in with my breathing, but it wasn’t helping. The engine block blurred in my vision and I blinked half a dozen times before it cleared.
And when it did, I looked again. And again. And I straightened, mentally running through all the progress I’d made that day. I’d been working for eight hours straight, so focused that I hadn’t stopped to consider that I might actually be able to start it.
Drive it.
Right that second.
Before anyone else could stop me.
The key was already in the ignition when I slipped into the driver’s seat.
I really didn’t know. I thought, but I didn’t know.
I closed my eyes as I turned it and let my grin spread when the engine purred to life.
“You want amazing?” I nodded my head toward the passenger seat. “Get in.”
The wind blew all of my fear away as Claire and I peeled out of the garage. The Spitfire roared and it was beautiful. The body was still a mishmash of flat gray and the interior was little better, but split leather was nothing as we whooped and I pressed the rebuilt engine to its limit along the empty roads by the citrus groves.
We hit 60mph in under fifteen seconds. Claire’s grin became a little tense as she watched the speedometer’s needle climb past 80, then 90. I wanted 95 like it was life, but I let up on the accelerator until Claire raised her arms up and laughed.
Still, the top was down and our hair was whipping and tangling against our faces in the moonlight. Driving that night was like a religious experience. There were almost no cars, no people, no noise. The streetlights made the roads glow and all the traffic lights were green, just for me. I forgot about everything as pavement disappeared under my car. We laughed like idiots for exactly 11.7 miles. The noise my car made after that was less a purr and more a death knell.
I groaned out loud and the car rolled to a halt alongside a huge stretch of orange trees. Claire gave a halfhearted “Woo” right before I let my head thud against the steering wheel.
“That sounded bad,” she said.
Bad nothing. It sounded like the Spitfire’d had the automotive equivalent of a stroke. The smoke billowing from under the hood confirmed it.
