6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Logan
T he following morning, I’m up, dressed, and ready to hit the road before the sun has fully risen. The ride is easy—impossible to get lost on the last stretch of Route 5 North. My GSX-R hums beneath me, a steady purr I feel through my bones. She’s built for speed, and I let her do what she does best, slicing through the highway like a blade through silk. The wind roars past, drowning out the thoughts that have been clawing at my skull since I left Portland.
I push the speed limit here and there, shaving minutes off my time, but I’m not reckless. Not today.
By the time I roll into Vancouver, my body aches from the ride, my knuckles stiff from gripping the handlebars too hard. My girl and I both need a break—her for fuel, me to scrape off the layer of dead bugs I’ve collected along the way. I stop at a gas station on the outskirts of town, stretching out before heading inside to splash some cold water on my face. No way I’m pulling up to Mac’s looking like I just survived a swarm of locusts.
With my tank topped up and my skin marginally cleaner, I hit the road again. The closer I get, the tighter my chest becomes. Two hours of nothing but open road, white lines blurring beneath my tires, and I didn’t spend a single second thinking about what the hell I’m actually going to say to her.
Maybe I just caveman it. Throw her over my shoulder and haul her back where she belongs. Food for thought.
As I turn onto her street, the familiar sight of the house comes into view, and my pulse stutters. It looks cold, empty. Curtains drawn tight, no sign of life. A lump forms in my throat, thick and heavy, and I swallow hard against it. This is the first time I’ve been back since Braden died. It feels like the world has shifted beneath me, tilting into something unfamiliar, something worse.
I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, hands still gripping the handlebars. I don’t need a mirror to know my jaw is clenched tight, my expression drawn. My fingers flex and release before I finally pull off my helmet and run a hand through my hair. No backing out now, Logan. You’re here. You’re here for her.
I set the helmet down on the back of the bike and dig my keys from my pocket, the metal cool against my palm. My gaze lifts to the house again, dread curling low in my gut. This place must feel like a goddamn mausoleum. A shrine to her misery, with ghosts staring out at her from picture frames, memories wrapped around her like a noose. The highs of the past, the crushing lows of the present—it had to be like a drug, giving her a hit of something good before ripping it all away again.
She had to have heard me pull up—the street’s too quiet for her not to—but the door stays closed, the curtains don’t twitch. No movement. A pang of something sharp digs into my ribs. She always used to open the door before I even made it to the steps. Always used to be waiting.
Not today.
I’m halfway up the path when a voice calls my name. For a second—just a split second—my heart stutters, thinking it might be her.
“Logan.”
I turn, and it’s not Mac.
Lola jogs across the street toward me, her expression shifting as her gaze flicks to the house. There’s pain there, buried deep, but I see it.
“How you doin’, Lola?” I ask, trying to shove down the disappointment.
She stops a few feet away, adjusting her torn jeans, her blue sneakers scuffing against the pavement. “Could ask you the same thing.”
And just like that, I know this isn’t going to be as easy as I told myself it would be.
Lola’s voice cracks. “I’ve been worried about Mac. She hasn’t been around in a while. I come by every day…I’ve been… looking after Braden’s—” Her voice hitches, the words breaking apart like fragile glass. “His plot.”
Her eyes well up, tears slipping down her cheeks before she can stop them. She looks away, blinking hard, swallowing the grief that’s been choking her since the day we lost him. And fuck, it’s obvious she’s been carrying this weight alone.
I knew she and Braden hooked up before he died. Never asked how serious it was—wasn’t my business—but looking at her now, her pain so raw it practically bleeds into the air around us, I realize it must’ve meant something to her. Maybe everything.
I tap her shoulder lightly. She looks up, her gaze glassy, lost in the past.
“That’s really kind of you, Lola. I’m sure he appreciates it. Mac too.” The words feel weak, like a flimsy Band-Aid over a wound too deep to heal. But it’s the truth. Whatever else I feel about her, she’s been here. She’s been trying.
She nods stiffly, sniffing.
“Come here.” I pull her into a hug before she can overthink it. She’s stiff at first, then melts into it, her forehead pressing against my collarbone. I hold her until she steps back, swiping at her face with her hoodie sleeve.
“Have you seen Mac?” My voice is steady, but I feel the weight of my own worry creeping in.
“No…I thought maybe she was with you? Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.” The words are heavier than I want them to be. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“Oh.” Her face falls, something like fear flashing in her eyes before she masks it. “Well, if you see her, tell her I’m worried. She…she doesn’t need to go through this alone.”
I swallow the sharp bitterness rising in my chest. That’s exactly what Mac wanted. To be alone. To lock herself away in this house and drown in the past. I push the feeling down, nodding. “That’s why I’m here.” The conviction in my voice feels like a lie. Because the truth is, I don’t know what the hell I’m walking into.
Lola studies me for a beat, then turns to leave, but there’s hesitation in her steps, like she’s unsure if she should say something else. Instead, she just nods again and heads down the street.
“Lola,” I call after her. She pauses. “Thanks for looking after Braden.”
A faint, sad smile touches her lips before she disappears around the corner.
The moment she’s gone, the silence closes in, thick and suffocating.
I turn back to the house, my fingers tightening around my keys. My gut twists with something ugly. Dread? Guilt? Maybe both. I slip the spare key from my keychain and stare at the door like it might swallow me whole.
My mind feeds me worst-case scenarios on a fucking loop.
What if she’s inside, hurt?
What if she’s not inside at all?
What if she—
No.
Mac wouldn’t do something like that.
Would she?
I want to tell myself it’s impossible. But then again, I would’ve said the same thing about a world without Braden in it, and look how that turned out.
I glance back at my bike, at the refuge it offers. I could leave. Walk away. Maybe she’s fine. Maybe I’m overreacting.
Stop being a fucking coward, Logan.
I grit my teeth and shove the key into the lock, turning it. The door creaks open without resistance.
I step inside.
The air is thick with the scent of vanilla orchids and Axe body spray, a weird mix of Mac’s favorite reed diffuser and Braden’s old cologne. It’s not unpleasant. Not what I feared. But it still knocks the breath from my lungs.
The hallway is pristine. Too pristine. Spotless floors, no dust, no clutter. Photos line the walls, familiar but distant, like looking into someone else’s life. Family outings. Mr. and Mrs. Smith cutting their wedding cake. A heavily pregnant Mrs. Smith, gaunt but glowing, on her way to the hospital.
Everything feels wrong.
Like a fucking museum filled with exhibits of the past.
“Mac?” My voice barely carries.
No answer.
A stack of unopened letters sits on the floor near the entrance. I scoop them up as I move deeper inside, dropping them onto the coffee table. The living room is eerily neat. No takeout boxes. No piles of laundry. No sign of life.
I flick the light on. Shadows shrink back into corners.
“Mac, where you at?” I call again.
Nothing.
The silence presses down harder.
My feet carry me upstairs before I fully register I’m moving. Her bedroom door is ajar. My pulse quickens as I step inside, her scent hitting me like a punch to the gut. It’s overwhelming. Familiar.
Her bed is made.
Too neatly.
Like no one’s slept in it.
I sink onto the edge of the mattress, my hands braced on my knees, trying to breathe. My gaze snags on something small and out of place—
A slip of paper on her pillow.
My name scrawled across it in her handwriting.
I pick it up, my fingers curling tight around the edges.
And suddenly, I don’t want to open it.
One word, a singular fucking word.
Sorry.
Sorry about what, Mac? What have you done?
I read it again. And again. My mind refuses to process it, like a glitching record skipping back to the same fucking note.
"Sorry?" I whisper, my voice cracking. The word burrows into me, growing louder, until I snap.
"Fucking sorry?! That’s it?!"
I crumple the paper in my fist, shoving it deep into my jeans pocket like I can bury the raw panic rising inside me. My pulse pounds in my ears, hot and erratic. My vision blurs at the edges, my breaths ragged as my chest rises and falls too fast. I want to break something, to throw my fists through the pristine walls that still smell like her. But I can’t. I can’t fucking move. My limbs are locked tight, frozen in the spot where I last saw her standing in this room. The sense of loss crashes over me like a second wave of grief, one I’m not sure I can survive.
Why wouldn’t she talk to me? What the hell is going on?
My hand rakes through my hair, tugging hard at the roots, like pain might somehow pull me back to reality. I turn too fast, the movement jerky, my body coiled so tight it hurts. My brain scrambles for solutions, anything that will make this moment make sense. Should I call the CMP? A private investigator? A fucking bounty hunter? What are my options here? What the fuck do I do?
Lost in thought, I move blindly, knocking against the bedside table. Something clatters to the floor. I flinch, my stomach twisting as I look down.
Braden’s phone.
Pikachu case and all.
A sharp pang hits me square in the chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. Fuck, man. My knees buckle, and I drop down, reaching for the phone like it’s a lifeline. The worn plastic is warm from the sun filtering through the window, a faded ear torn off, the tail barely hanging on. It’s ridiculous. Silly. And it guts me.
I laugh, but the sound is hollow. Bitter.
Mac won this case for him from an arcade claw machine, got it on the first damn try. I spent twenty fucking dollars trying to win something, and she just sauntered up, did her thing, and handed Braden the prize like it was nothing. He loved that stupid thing, kept it on his phone no matter how much shit I gave him for it.
The phone chimes.
My breath catches. My pulse slams against my ribs.
Mac’s name flashes on the screen.
My fingers twitch. A fresh bolt of panic zips through me. My gut clenches so hard I feel sick.
I reach for the phone with unsteady hands. It’s just a notification. An update. But it means the phone is still connected to something. Shit.
What was Braden’s passcode?
I rake through my scrambled thoughts, searching for the memory. It was an inside joke, something between Braden and Mac. I almost have it, but not quite.
Chace.
Chace will know.
I fumble for my own phone, thumbs clumsy as I pull up Snapchat and tap on his stupid handle, "Professor Chace MD"—Mac’s doing. A nerd emoji stares back at me, and for once, I don’t have it in me to roll my eyes.
Logan: Braden’s pin?
I send, pacing as I wait for him to reply. The typing bubbles pop up almost immediately.
Professor Chace MD : Hey there, Logman. Glad you made it there in one piece. How’s she doing? She agreed to come with us or what? Just having some breakfast, well, brunch, it’s like—
Jesus fucking Christ, Chace. Not now.
Logan: Pin.
More typing. He hesitates, then deletes. Starts again. My grip tightens around my phone. My other hand fists at my side, nails digging into my palm.
Professor Chace MD : Is she okay? Are you guys alright?
I don’t answer. I glare at my phone, willing him to just spit it the fuck out. My heart thunders as the screen lights up with an incoming call.
I ignore it.
Logan: She’s not here. Braden’s phone is. Need. Pin.
A long pause. My throat locks up. I swear to God, if he doesn’t answer—
Professor Chace MD : Ohhh, smart. They have that Life360 thing, right? You should join up too. Always good to keep tabs.
Logan: Chace.
Professor Chace MD : Oh yeah, the code—0622.
I exhale sharply. Of course. Braden was exactly six minutes and twenty-two seconds older than Mac. It was his favorite dumb fact, something he never let her forget.
I don’t bother responding. I punch in the code, and the phone unlocks with a quiet click.
A flood of notifications fills the screen. My fingers swipe through them, my heartbeat in my throat. Then I see it.
A location ping.
Mac’s phone has 10% battery left.
And she’s in fucking Portland.
I stare at the map, Route 5 stretching out before me like a goddamn lifeline.
"Got you."
I pocket Braden’s phone, my nerves thrumming with adrenaline. My muscles coil, ready to move. Relief and rage mix in my bloodstream, leaving me lightheaded. I’m already calculating how fast I can make the ride when the reality slams into me.
What the hell is she doing in Portland?
Heading back through the house, I double-check everything is locked and drawn. Nervous energy bubbles up, and I find myself grabbing paper towels and surface cleaner. I wipe down dust, check the bins, and head out to the garage—only to get an unexpected surprise.
A massive form covered in a dust sheet takes up most of the room. A thought occurs to me, and I smile. If I turned up on my Suzuki, Mac would kick the shit out of me for trying to take her cross-country on my bike—especially since she heard its nickname: The Widow Maker . No, this is more fitting. I click the garage open and return to my ministrations, taking the bins to the curb.
The street is alive with everyday bustle. A couple of white-haired neighbors—Mr. and Mrs. Larsson, if memory serves—are out with their caramel lab. They pause before picking up after their pup, offering polite waves. I return the gesture, scuffing my boots as I approach my GSX-R, resting on its kickstand.
I let out a slow breath, running a hand through my damp hair. The blue and white bike gleams in the midday sun. My fingers trail over the handlebars, a familiar comfort as I consider the road ahead. I swing my leg over, loosely resting my helmet on top of my head, and close my eyes, my jaw tightening.
"Mac, just what are you thinking, angel?" It doesn’t feel right being here without her. Had I done something wrong? If I had, would she have left the note? Was that a real goodbye? Did she not intend on talking to me or the guys again?
I shake off the thought. I can beat myself up after I get some answers. I pull my helmet down, cracking the visor a few degrees. Gripping the brake, I finger the clutch and twist the key. The engine purrs to life, the deep rumble echoing through the quiet neighborhood. The sound has always felt like home. I ease the clutch, guiding the bike slowly toward the garage, muscle memory taking over as I roll up to the door before killing the engine.
Stepping off, I wheel the bike inside. The cold-packed room is dim, daylight barely reaching past the threshold. The long fluorescent tube lighting hums above, casting a sterile glow. The scent of gas and transmission fluid lingers—a mix of copper, fumes, and something sharp like onion. It seeps into the concrete, the air, your skin.
I grab the dust sheet off the massive mound in the center of the space, and the fabric slides away with a whisper, revealing sex on wheels.
I don’t know how Braden found it—or if it was even legal—but one thing’s for sure: the car is a masterpiece. A work of art.
He never told me where he got it, only that he poured months of blood, sweat, and probably a few beers into building it. Before the band signed a record deal, before we had a single on the radio, Braden sank every dime he had into this thing. It wasn’t just a car to him—it was his car, his baby.
I run my hand over the blackout hood, smooth and cold under my palm. A thrill shoots through me. Braden once told me the original paint was inspired by the color of a Coke bottle, but he changed it to cherry black. I tried to convince him to go matte, but he felt it would take it too far from its heyday, and I got it. Restored to its former glory, a meaty 426 V8 Hemi under the hood, pushing out 425 horsepower.
When I look at this beauty, it’s not soda that comes to mind—it’s tequila shots off some college girl’s stomach. Salt on her skin, licked clean. The lemon taken with a kiss. I think of burgers, beers, and blowjobs. The American dream, all wrapped up in steel and chrome.
Braden only drove this beauty a handful of times after finishing it. He was afraid of scratching it, dinging it, breathing on it wrong. But I never understood that. A car like this deserves to run. To tear down highways and roar into the night. To hit the tire shop every six weeks from being thoroughly enjoyed. Christ, my own baby—God rest her soul—was a sister to this beauty. A 1971 Dodge Challenger.
I pause, taking a deep breath. It happens to be the same car Braden was in the night of his... No. No time for that now. Gotta go see a girl.
"I hope you don’t mind, brother, but I’m borrowing your ride." I know exactly where the keys are. Or should be, anyway—in a leather pouch in the top drawer of his Snap-on rolling cabinet. But when I get there, of course, the damn cabinet is locked. And the keys? Nowhere to be seen.
I head back inside, my resolve hardening. Memories dredged from the past hit me in waves. Running through the hall with a popsicle in hand, Braden chasing me with a water gun. If I knew cleaning would unleash a batch of repressed thoughts, I would’ve left the dust alone. Even looking toward the kitchen, where I was moments ago, I see a tiny Mac clinging to her mom’s leg for safety while their mom chopped vegetables for dinner. Then—poof. Gone. The house is dead silent again, aside from being fucking haunted by echoes of the past.
The emptiness is a sucker punch to the chest, pushing me into motion. Back in Braden’s room, I tear through his dresser drawers, the windowsill, anywhere he might’ve stashed the key. Nothing.
"Come on, Braden. Where did you hide your toolbox key, bro? Don’t make me bust it open."
I spot his doom jar—overflowing with crap he’d deemed important once. Receipts, rubber bands, paperclips, spare quarters. Batteries in sizes I didn’t think existed anymore—probably half-dead, but you never knew when he might need them, so into the jar they went. Hydrocortisone, expired in 2000? Yeah, important. Dios mío…
"Ah-hah!" There it is—the spare key to the tool cabinet. Buried under a couple of blunted thumbtacks and some electrical tape.
I head back toward the garage, saying a silent thanks to Braden and his parents for the good memories. I’ll make sure Mac visits their graves when she’s ready.
The house feels a little warmer as I get ready to leave.
I slip the key into the cabinet. It slides open with ease, and I can picture Braden—arms crossed, wry smile, brow raised—watching me.
“I’ll take real good care of her, I promise,” I say, amused.
Reaching in, I unclip his keys from a leather wallet nestled in a foam insert beside a small rack of 10mm sockets—because those bastard things were always going missing, and Braden made sure to have extras. A man after my own heart.
It isn’t until I pop the door and slide into the driver’s seat, key hovering near the ignition, that I realize my earlier words could apply to both Mac and his ‘69 Charger.
“Both. I’ll take care of both, mi compadre.”
Not that I expect a response. But saying it out loud just feels right.
The key clicks into the ignition. Hands on the cold steering wheel, I adjust the rearview mirror, then each wing mirror, nodding once in satisfaction. I engage the ignition, and… nothing.
A thought strikes, and I grin.
Braden wouldn’t have left the battery connected. He’d either have it on a charging station or…
I pop the hood and climb out, propping it open. Sure enough, the battery is in place, but the leads aren’t connected. I grab a spanner from the tool chest, securing the terminals before giving the engine a once-over. Everything else looks good.
I slam the hood shut and slide back into the seat.
“Okay, baby. I already lifted your skirt, we had a little foreplay, and you’re looking radiant. Now, let me show you a good time.”
I twist the key.
At first, there’s a flat splutter.
“Ah, ?estás nerviosa?” I chuckle, teasing.
She struggles to catch, so I kill the ignition before I flood it. Give her a second. Then try again.
This time, she roars to life—growling, snarling like a wild animal set free. The sound sends a rush of pure, stupid joy through me.
I grab the garage door opener and ease her onto the street. She chugs along like she owns the place.
Braden’s probably shaking his head, watching over me. I can picture that big, goofy grin, ear to ear.
The gas tank is full. I pop open the glove box, finding a small Dodge-stamped wallet—about four hundred bucks American inside. Along with four mix tapes.
“Jesus, Braden, you were just as bad as me.”
The man refused to upgrade to MP3s, which means no skipping tracks. I hit play, curious what his last choice was.
The Carpenter’s. Really?
“Sorry, dude. Not today.”
I eject the tape and rummage through the pile until I find one labeled Power Mix.
“That sounds promising.”
I shove it in, crank the volume, and grin as Thunderstruck bursts from the speakers.
This’ll do nicely.
Fingers tapping the wheel to the beat, I drop her into gear and take off. Tires squeal in delight. The wind screams past.
I’ve got one thing on my mind. And I’m done waiting.
“Ready or not, here I come.”