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She looks at me.

I turn back to the bike.

“Ryder.”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Probably something nice.”

“Would that be terrible?”

“Usually.”

She’s quiet.

I inspect a fuel line that hasn’t mattered in fifteen years.

“His name was Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“How old was he?”

“Seventeen.”

“And you were eighteen?”

I nod.

The silence stretches. I should change the subject. Make a joke. Ask if she’s enjoying staring at my ass while I’m bent over the bike.

That’s what I do. Turn everything into something I can laugh at.

Except I don’t feel like laughing.

“We fought that night.”

Clara stays where she is.

“He was drunk. Really drunk. We were at a party outside town.” I sit on the concrete floor and lean against the workbench. “He wanted to leave. I told him no.” Clara lowers herself onto an old wooden crate across from me. “I was supposed to drive him home.”

“What happened?”

“He got pissed.”

I rub my palms together. “Cole was good at that. Getting pissed. So was I.”

“Brothers.”

“Yeah.”

I look toward the motorcycle. “I told him he was being a fucking idiot. He told me I was a controlling asshole. We got into it.”

“Physically?”

“No. Close.”