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My chest tightens as I try to process this information. For two years after Nate’s death, Lev stuck around but was a shell of himself, a lot like I was. He rarely talked to me if we ran into each other out in public. He disappeared from my life after the funeral, just like the rest of the Wolf Pack.

And that was exactly the opposite of what I needed. I so desperately needed to be a part of something. Any little bit of normalcy those guys could have provided me would have helped. And I so desperately needed for Lev to be here, to help me through the fucking pain, to make me feel something—anything—again. But he left. He fucking just left one day and didn’t even say goodbye.

The tough part is, I really liked him.

I don’t know why I expected more from him. I was just a young, stupid kid, I guess, trying to grieve but left without anyone. So fucking alone and lost. It’s sure as hell some weird, fucked-up karma that I thought of him just yesterday, and now, he’s back.

“Here you go.” The server’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts as she sets the to-go container, my drink, and the bill on the table in front of me.

I throw down a twenty, say thank you, and stand up, waving a goodbye to Ryan and Katie.

“Saturday night!” Ryan yells after me, and even though he doesn’t elaborate, I know he’s wanting me to go out for drinks and music with him this weekend. I’m ready to get fucked up again, so I throw my hand in the air to signal that I heard him and head out the door.

On my way home, my mind goes back to Lev. He’s home, and that means I’ll inevitably run into him. I wonder what he’s been doing the last six years and whether he’d even know me if he ran into me. I look a little different than I did when I was thirteen. I grimace inwardly, thinking about the shiny metal braces and buzz cut I had and those damn zits all over my face and back. And my fashion sense—lots of baggy clothes, like sweatpants and hoodies. I’m older now; I’ve refined my look, and I’ve clearly grown into my body. My baby fat turned into a more defined back and chest. My skin cleared up, my braces came off, and I got myself pierced and started dressing a bit darker. Now, I’m happy with my body and my style. It may not be what everyone prefers—like my dad—but it’s comfortable to me. And even though I’m empty on the inside, the package on the outside looks much more put together. I’m happy with who I am, whether Lev would recognize me or not.

It’s not until I’m pulling off the side of the road that I realize I didn’t go home from the diner. Thinking about Lev and my brother must have brought me here, instead, to the little inlet that was carved out by the town in Nate’s memory. It was really nice of them to do, but completely unnecessary. That’s what happens when someone young dies, though, isn’t it? People feel so helpless that they need to do something. So my dumbass brother, who thought it was okay to drive while he was completely fucked up, gets a shrine.

Grabbing my food, I climb out of the car and sit on the hood. I manage to take a bite of my sandwich, even as I stare at the tree Nate wrapped his car around that night over eight years ago now. But I feel the tears start to prick the back of my eyes, and I set my take-out container down, not interested in eating anymore.

Pulling my knees up to my chest, I lean my head on them and let the tears start to flow. Memories of that night flash through my mind. The phone ringing in the distance, pulling me from a dream. My mother wailing right after the phone stopped ringing, my father rushing into my room to get me up and out the door to the hospital. The sounds of beeping and the bright fluorescent lights accosting me when we got there. The stale smell of the sterile room we were taken to. And then those words were uttered by the doctor. “We did everything we could. I’m sorry.” I’ll never forget the sound that tore out of my mother’s throat and the way my dad collapsed to his knees on the white tile floor.

“Fuck you, Nathan Archer. FUCK YOU!” I scream, slapping the food container off the car and watching it sail across the ground. “Fuck you for being such a fucking dumbass that you not only killed yourself, but you killed the rest of us too. You’re a fucking bastard, and I fucking HATE you,” I seethe, tears streaming down my face, my body shaking from the tears and anger. I yank at my hair with my fingers.

“I loved you, you dickhead. I needed my big brother, and you fucking threw it away. You fucking threw it all away. God, I hate you.” The tears continue to flow, and I let them, not even trying to hold back. “I fucking miss you,” I choke out between sobs.

I don’t even know how long I cry, but when the tears finally stop, I’m exhausted. My neck and shoulders are sore from tensing so much, I can’t breathe through my stuffed up nose, and my eyes and throat are burning. I know I’m going to get a headache soon, too.

I take a deep breath and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until it hurts. Then I slowly slide off the hood of the car, wiping my cheeks with my palms. I walk over and pick up the sandwich container, which landed a few feet away, leaving the sandwich for whatever critters want to indulge tonight, and then I toss the container in the trash can and climb back into the car.

Resting my head on the steering wheel, I take several long, deep breaths. Then, even though I’m so, so fucking tired and I just wish I could teleport home, I manage to start the engine, shift into drive, and pull back out onto the road, heading toward my house.

Chapter 5

Levon

Five days ago, when I set foot in the shop for the first time in more than six years, the sight and the smell and the feel of it made it seem like I hadn’t been gone a day. My uncle took good care of the place. This doesn’t surprise me. One of the things he taught me was how important it is to take pride in your work. He’s meticulous, and it’s something I carried with me when I left and with the work I did in the shop in Sheltonville. I was lucky enough to find something that not only gave me more training but also fed my love of motorcycles. It was fun and paid the bills, but it didn’t hold a candle to the way my uncle runs this place.

Looking around the shop more, I notice just how clean and organized it is. Tools and machinery line the walls, all blended in a color scheme of red, chrome, and black. The workstations have some oil stains but seem clean and highly functional. The shop smells like it’s somewhere I belong, too, the scents of oil, exhaust, and chrome polish bringing me comfort, taking me back to when I used to come here as a kid.

It’s funny now, as I stop for a moment to stare at the full-wall mirror along the back wall of the shop behind the register. I can remember how my uncle used to let me sit on some of the bikes and how I’d see myself in that mirror, him beside me, holding me so I didn’t fall or knock the bike over. I thought I was so cool and couldn’t wait to get my own.

And now, here I am.

My uncle walks me through the rest of the shop and shows me the waiting room, the breakroom, and the back office, where he does his bookkeeping and such, and then we spend some time meeting people who will soon be my customers. He also shows me financial stuff and goes over how to place orders and bill customers. Just before I leave at the end of the first day, I bring my personal toolbox in and set it on the shop table nearest to the office, the one Uncle John always claimed as his own. I can barely believe it’s mine now. It feels surreal.

Over the next few days, Uncle John gives me a few bikes to work on, and although it’s only been about a week, it feels good to get my hands dirty again. The only thing I like better than riding a bike is working on one. As the week goes on, I’m quickly getting more comfortable and settled in with his—my—shop, and the place is starting to feel more like home. I’m happy to be using my hands and tools and skills again so soon.

By the time Saturday night rolls around, I’m definitely ready to go out and blow off some steam.

As I stand in front of the bathroom mirror at my apartment, brushing my teeth, excitement races through my veins, along with a healthy dose of nerves. Chris texted earlier this week, insisting I meet up with him and the rest of the Wolf Pack to catch up, grab a beer. I’m grateful for the invite since I’ve been shit about keeping up with my friends, and I wasn’t sure how they’d feel with me moving back.

But a little while earlier in the day, I got a text from Garrett, another member of the Wolf Pack, that solidified our plans for tonight, letting me know the Pack would be at his bar, a place called The Copper Exchange, and that they were all looking forward to seeing me. From what I hear, Garrett’s bar is a pretty cool place to hang out. Not only that, but Garrett is also apparently into motorcycles, as I found out when he stopped in at the shop yesterday. We didn’t have much time to catch up, but he told me he’s still best friends with Chris, who plays some local places with his band and is set up to play at The Copper Exchange today, which is probably why Chris insisted I come. And honestly, I’m pumped for it. It sounds like the perfect opportunity to ease myself back into the Pack.

I rinse my mouth and then straighten and look at myself in the mirror, zeroing in on the tattooed silhouette of a wolf head howling at the moon inked on my upper arm. I chuckle thinking back on it—how we used to do the stupidest shit. When we turned sixteen, we all went together to some seedy place in the city and lied about our ages to get matching Wolf Pack tattoos. It’s a crappy tattoo—my worst looking one, if I’m honest—but I’ve never covered it, even when I got my sleeve on this arm. It’s faded, the ink more blue than black, but it meant something then, and it still means something now, a reminder of what the Pack meant to me, of what Nate meant to me.

And that’s also why I’m excited for tonight, to see more familiar faces of friends I’ve missed. With everyone I’ve encountered since coming home, I’ve found myself releasing more of the tension and anxiety I have about people feeling resentful of my disappearing act and my utter lack of contact. It’s been a warm welcome, and I hope that maybe, with more time, my old friends will make Glenrock feel even more like home again.

I’m not sure what the exact mood of Garrett’s bar is, since I haven’t been there. But I choose clothes that seem safe and comfortable, and as a final thought, I throw a baseball hat on. I really want to ride my bike, but it’s colder than it has been, so I grab my car keys instead and leave my apartment.