Chapter 5
[Dart]
Parking along Dock Street in Rogue River, I sit and stare out the windshield at the darkened town. The lights outside The Ferryman’s Rest. The white-covered dock, a town landmark, in the distance. The river flowing like black ink in the background.
Everything looks the same and yet completely different.
Flexing my fingers over the steering wheel, I watch them tremble. Aftershocks of the accident, along with the black and blue bruises on my ribs, and the concussion diagnosis. I shouldn’t have driven such a long distance, but I’d waited as long as I could to get here.
The accident comes back to me again, like a slow-moving reel in my head.
The crash came out of nowhere.
A blink-and-you-miss-it-mistake at nearly 190 miles per hour.
Mid-pack, my car caught a faint tap to the left rear as I surged into turn three.
The back-end snaps loose, the tires wailed across the asphalt with a scream swallowed by the roar of engines.
I fought the wheel, but the car was already out of my control, sliding sideways, then hooking hard as the tires bit again.
The impact was violent.
The front end slammed into the outside wall, folding the hood upward and sending a shock through the chassis like a hammer blow.
The car ricocheted, spinning across the track in a cloud of smoke and debris.
Another hit followed, this time on the right side, steel and SAFER barrier grinding together in a shower of sparks that lit the grandstands.
For a breathless second, the car lifted, all four tires skimming above the surface before crashing back down and coming to rest against the wall.
Silence—then the hiss of steam and the crackle of the radio.
In the driver’s seat, I sat stunned, heart pounding, ears ringing, nose filled with the smell of burnt rubber.
The safety straps had done their job, holding me tight.
My head throbbed from the force of the impact, and my hands trembled as I flexed my fingers, testing myself piece by piece.
Pain flared in my shoulder and ribs, sharp but manageable.
I was hurt—but I was alive.
In an instant, a beautiful image flashed in my mind. Hair, long and blonde. Eyes deep wells of darkness, and yet still a beacon. Face round, smile wide, laughter always on her tongue.
Trinity.
Get out of the car, Dart.
My mind played tricks on me, her voice a whisper just above the ring in my ears and thump in my chest.
Still, I quickly unbuckled and scrambled out the window. I stood on the door frame for a split second, swaying slightly, then raising a hand to let everyone know I was okay.
Bruised and shaken, I still walked away under my own power.
I blink at the bright light of The Ferryman’s Rest, a local bar near the river, and an old haunt of mine and my friends.
Home, it was the first word that whispered through my head after Doc diagnosed me and Max said I was done for the season.
Come home to me, Dart.
My mind had definitely been fucking with me, hearing her sweet voice like a whispered plea. Damn concussion caused that plea to return to the scene of a different crash. A damaged marriage.
The analogies were endless. The heart of a car is the engine, and her heart was certainly dead toward me. Her tone flat as tires. Her enthusiasm at my return was like a shattered windshield.
Every mile put between me and Florida was a range of emotions. Questions like speed bumps of doubt. Hairpin turns ripe with an urgency to get here. The home stretch was all anxiety.
The finish line was Rogue River, West Virginia, that house, and Trin.
And I am a jackass.
Sneaking into the house was stupid.
I didn’t know what I expected. I shouldn’t have expected anything.
And she had a baby.
Just what the fuck? Why didn’t any of the guys tell me she was pregnant? That she’d met someone? That she’d moved on?
The trembling in my hands could no longer be attributed to the memory of the accident. My sides were black and blue for more reasons than the crash. My heart hammered against my ribs, banging at my chest.
You idiot. You lost her. You’ve actually lost her.
Yet, what did I really think? That she’d be sitting here, waiting for my return? Holding her breath while I raced around a circle, chasing my tail and my pride? That she’d keep her hands at ten and two on her heart, like I’ve kept mine?
I pump the brakes on my racing thoughts.
Her moving on is why I left, right? I wanted her to be happy again. Wanted her to heal. Make new dreams, maybe love someone who wasn’t a failure.
I need a drink, and I shove open my truck door, breathing in the subtle smell of moving water and thick pines. Even the scent of the town is similar and yet not quite the same as I remember.
The Ferryman’s Rest is my destination. A purposely dingy-washed exterior looks like the outside of a well-worn riverboat.
The kind used for hauling cargo, not people.
The interior walls are weathered wood with captain’s wheels and knotted rope décor, along with low-lit lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
But most of the decoration is overshadowed by the neon beer advertisements, fishing paraphernalia, and river-related quotes that litter the walls.
This place feels a little like entering a bait and tackle shop that serves beer.
And the inside remains the same as it was three years ago, as if time stood still in my absence.
Trinity might have moved on, but The Ferryman’s Rest has not.
I used to come here after a hard day working construction, or on long evenings when Trin had an overnight shift at the hospital.
Here was where I hung out with friends.
The same guys currently sitting at a table near the back.
Hutch Hudson.
Marshall Grant.
Jon Pettington, who went by Petty, and was the last person I’d expect to see sitting in this bar.
“Holy shit,” Hutch hisses.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Marshall drawls, exaggerating a Southern twang.
“Last man I expected to see here,” Petty states, stealing my thoughts.
“I could say the same about you,” I counter as he slowly rises from his chair.
His riot of blond curls features streaks of gray.
Wrinkles near his eyes give away the years of living the life of a band member for Collision, an alternative rock group who’d hit their peak about fifteen years ago.
He’s tall and lean and smacks my back hard as we embrace.
Unlike my short absence, Petty has been gone since college, although we’ve all kept in touch. Maybe we didn’t always reunite here in Rogue River, but we didn’t let our friendship disappear, like I had from this town.
With a final slap, Petty spins toward the table, his hand lingering on my upper back.
“You remember Hutch.” He points at the burly beast in our friend group who still looks like a linebacker but has a heart of gold.
“And Marshall.” Petty nods toward the slick one in our gang. Black hair. Blue eyes. Back in high school, every girl wanted to be his.
“And I’m Petty.” He pats his chest.
“Ha-ha-ha.” I mock at the implication that I’d forgotten them. “I just saw you guys in February.”
The second month of the year marks the start of the racing season. They’d come down to Florida for a time trial. We met up back in November to attend one of Petty’s concerts. We met in Vegas last summer.
Of course, there was always one man missing from those visits.
Originally, our crew was like a five-point star, each of us a highlighted arm of the shape.
For half a second, I’m relieved the fifth member is not present.
Then, I hear a low hiss behind me, accompanied by a sharp, “What the fucking hell?”
I slowly spin to see a man with reddish-brown hair, a thin layer of scruff on his jaw, and eyes that match his sister’s—coffee brown and pissed.
“Tate,” I choke around his name.
Tate Haven made up the final point in our friend group. Tate, whose younger sister should have been off limits, yet I flirted with her forever, because I’d known from the moment I met her, she’d be just that for me.
Forever.
Despite the three-year blip in time, Trinity is always going to be mine.
“You have some fucking nerve,” Tate continues, setting down the four long-neck bottles between his fingers and standing to his full height to face me.
“Tate,” I state his name a little stronger this round, shifting my eyes from him to the guys and back.
In a flash, the sympathy in Hutch’s face is apparent, as is the concern in Marshall’s. Petty’s hand comes to my shoulder again, standing in solidarity with me as the other man who left our pack long ago.
“I’ll pull up another chair,” Petty says before he drops his hand from my shoulder and reaches for a seat at the table behind us. A group of women giggle as they allow Petty to steal the chair.
“I’m leaving,” Tate states at the same time I say, “I should probably go.”
“Sit your asses down,” Marshall grunts, pointing the long neck of his beer bottle at the empty chairs around the table.
Petty waves at the one next to him. Tate takes the empty seat beside Hutch, across from me.
This is fucking awkward layered on uncomfortable and perilous, and yet, Tate’s wrath is as warranted as his sister’s.
He’d been one of my best friends, and I assured him over and over again that I’d never hurt her.
Never leave her. Never stop loving her. Promised him with everything I had, which wasn’t much.
Then I did the exact opposite of what I vowed.
I broke her heart. And mine.
“Whatcha doin’ back here?” Hutch asks with genuine interest, before bringing a beer to his lips.
“Does Trin know you’re back?” Tate interjects before I can provide an answer, glaring at me while lifting his bottle and taking a sip. He continues to evil-eye me over the end of the tipped-up bottle.
“Saw that accident, man,” Marshall says next, shifting topics.
I glance at him first. “Yeah, I got lucky.”
But had I? My wife had a baby without me. And any hopes of a racing career are now on hold.