19. Blair
19
BLAIR
" Y ou're awfully quiet," Matt says, glancing over his shoulder at me from the wash sink, the sound of running water echoing through the garage.
"Not much to say," I mutter, glaring down at the engine I've been working on for way too long. "Not like you and your buddy." My fingers tighten around the wrench I'm holding until my knuckles turn white. Ransom being here fucked up my whole morning. I couldn't concentrate, and I'm all kinds of pissed about it. I like pissed. Better than confused and sad.
"Hoo! I knew that was going to get under your skin."
I glare at him, wondering for the millionth time why I didn't fire him. I know why; he's great at his job, and I don't want to work sixteen-hour days, but sometimes he annoys the shit out of me. "Then why did you do it?"
"I didn't see you turning away free labor," he says, smirking. He turns and leans against the sink, wiping his hands on a clean shop rag and crossing his arms across his chest. "You have some pretty powerful friends. How come you never talked about him?"
"There wasn't anything to say. Before last night, I hadn't seen him in twenty-five years."
"Fuck. That's a long time. Sounds like there's a story there."
"Yeah, there is. But not one I'm interested in sharing."
He holds his hands up. "Fair enough. It just…" he trails off, shaking his head.
I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to— "It just what?"
He winces and steps closer, his boots scuffing softly against the worn linoleum floor. "It's just, aren't you tired? I didn't understand it before, but I do now. Something happened to you a long time ago, and I think he had something to do with it. And today, there's been this anger brewing in you. I could feel it across the fucking garage. And you're telling me this is old news? Doesn't seem like it's in the past to me."
I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter. The ancient refrigerator hums loudly in the background.It's been on its last legs for twenty years, but it still keeps our stash of soda and beer cold. They don't build them like they used to. That's true for cars and for appliances. "How should I be reacting?"
"I don't know, McKenna." He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. "All I know is carrying around that much anger eats at you. I can tell you that from personal experience. Maybe you need to figure out a way to forgive whatever it was he did, so you can move the fuck on."
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the steady drip of the faucet. "That's not an easy thing to do," I finally mutter, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I know." He nods, his expression softening. "I'm still working on it too."
I shift my weight, uncrossing my arms as curiosity gets the better of me. "Who do you need to forgive?" Matt's lived in this town over five years. When he got here he was quieter, withdrawn. But we never talked about why, and he never offered.
Which honestly suits me just fine. But I'm realizing that maybe not checking in all this time kind of makes me a shit boss.
Hell, a shit friend.
His voice is low, rough. "Me." He looks up at the clock, then nods a goodnight to me, and he's gone. I listen for the sound of his boots on the staircase, but don't hear them. He's been renting the apartment since Dad died, and it works for both of us. I have someone watching the shop, and he has an easy commute.
Stopping in the opening of my middle bay door, I watch him walk off, hands tucked in his jeans pocket, shoulders hunched against the cold.
He carries a weight, but I never asked why. Maybe he and Dad talked; I don't know. I figured if he wanted to share, he would. Otherwise, I minded my own fucking business.
Too bad he doesn't seem to feel the same.
Now you're just being an ass. Also, that's totally not true.
"Forgive," I mutter, glaring out toward the benches in the town square.
I sigh, leaning against the doorframe. Forgiveness is such a simple concept, but it's just not that easy.
For years, I've carried this anger, this hurt. It's become a part of me, shaping my decisions and my relationships. What would it be like to just... let it go? To release the grip of resentment that's been squeezing my heart for so long?
I close my eyes, trying to imagine a world where I'm not constantly carrying this weight. A world where Ransom's name doesn't make my stomach churn. It's hard to picture, but there's a glimmer of something there. Relief? Peace? I could use a little peace. And honestly, I don't want to spend any more time angry. Focusing on Maggie and appreciating the time I have left with her has to be my priority.
Opening my eyes, I scan the town square again, breath catching as I recognize a figure facing me. He's not shaped anything like the kid I knew, but I still know it's him. Ransom. He's standing near our old bench—no, not ours anymore. Just a bench now.
My feet are rooted to the spot as I debate with myself. Part of me wants to retreat back into the garage to the safety of my anger. But another part, the quieter voice I've been ignoring for years, urges me forward.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm moving. Each step down the driveway feels like I'm wading through molasses. I've faced plenty of hard things in my life, so why am I being such a fucking baby about this?
As I cross, my heart pounds in my chest. What am I doing? What am I going to say? But it's too late to turn back now. He's seen me, and no damn way will I turn and run from him. I won't allow myself to be that weak.
I approach slowly, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to hide their trembling. He’s changed into a different shirt. Grey plaid. It looks good on him.
Ransom's gaze is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes that keeps me from turning around and bolting back to the shop. Something that looks a little like hope.
"Blair," he says softly, my name a question on his lips.
"Ransom." Fuck. What do I say? "It hurts to look at you."
He flinches and exhales, long and slow. "Fuck, you don't ease into it, do you? Just go straight for the jugular."
Am I happy I hurt him? No, not really. Mostly, I'm sad. "I didn't say it to hurt you. It's just…the truth."
His lips press together as he stares over my head. "I know. I've always known, even back then, that I was going to hurt you. I'm still sorry."
"So you've said." I stare at the bench, debating with myself, then cross and sit. "I haven't sat here since that night. It became 'the bench' in my head." I rub my hand over the wood slats. "Do you think places absorb the bad stuff that happens there?"
Ransom rubs the back of his neck, then sits on the other side of the bench, angled toward me. We're both bigger than we were all those years ago, so there's only space for a small child between us. He's too close, and instinctively I want to move away, but I force myself to sit in the discomfort.
I'm an expert at this. Sitting next to Maggie, listening to her plan her fucking funeral has forced me to get friendly with uncomfortable, painful things.
"I don't know," he finally says, eyeing me. "Sitting here, I remember that night, but I also remember all the good times, too. I remember sitting here, eating chips with you, talking about what we were going to do when we grew up. Maybe this bench absorbed enough happy to counteract the bad?"
"That's a nice idea."
"Blair, I?—"
"No," I say, holding up a hand. "I need you to hear me, please." He nods, eyes locked on my face. "I don't know you anymore. I don't know the man you are, so I can only talk to the boy I used to know. And I have to believe that boy isn't trying to destroy my life. That everything you've done for the last year has been because you loved my dad, like you said."
He opens his mouth to jump in, and I reach out, pressing my fingers on his lips. Bad fucking move. I pull them back quickly, but the damage is done. The stupid sparks are there, dancing between us, as strong as I remember them, maybe more.
"Please let me finish." I wait for his nod, then continue, "I don't know what Dad said to you. But he left me a letter. He wanted more for me than this town. I'm guessing he said the same thing to you?" It took me a while to put together my Dad’s letter —mostly rambling about all the things he wished he’d done differently, and all the hopes he had for me— together with Ransom’s sudden reappearance in my life.
He hesitates, then nods, and something twists in my chest. I rub my sweaty palm along my jean covered thigh. "He got it in his head, there at the end, that I deserved more than a small-town life. But the thing is, Ransom, I love it here. This is my home. All the people I love are here. I have work that I'm proud of." I raise a hand, waving at a few kids biking past. "I fit in here, in a way my dad never did. And he was too stubborn to see that. He's the one who wanted to live in the city. He's the one who wanted more than this town. It was never me."
I turn on the bench until my knees are nearly touching his. "This last year, you weren't listening to me when I said no. I need you to listen now. I don't want to sell. I'm happy here. Really happy. And if you want to preserve any little bit of good feelings I have left toward you, you'll stop. All of it. Stop sending me offers. Stop disrupting my life.."
His eyes are racing over my face, and when he speaks, his voice is low, thrumming with honesty. "I wasn't trying to hurt you, Blair, I swear it. You're right, I wanted to respect Robert's wishes. I—" he runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't really let myself think about you." His mouth twists. "That's a lie. I thought about you, but I didn't let myself think of what you wanted. I decided that Robert must have his reasons, and that's as far as I let it go."
He stops, looking like there's more he wants to say. Eventually, he sighs and slumps back on the bench. "Making you those offers was my way of helping you. Of making up for everything that happened. Everything I did."
"Money can't fix the past. Money can't take away the memories." He winces, acknowledging the truth of that. He knows it as well as I do. "Anyway, I've never been someone that cared about money. You didn't used to be either."
"People change."
"I guess so. You rolled into town in a five hundred thousand dollar car."
He looks at me, a slow smirk curving his lips. "And you wanted nothing more than to get behind the wheel, didn't you?"
I let myself imagine getting behind the wheel of that perfect piece of engineering and sigh. "I so did."
He chuckles, and I let the slow warmth of it thaw a few more icy spots in my chest. He grins and rests his elbow on the back of the bench. "It's a fucking beast of a car."
"It is. Not that I'd know from personal experience. Nobody around here drives anything like that. But fuck if I wouldn't kill to look under the hood."
"All you have to do is ask, Blair."
Asking him for anything seems like a bad idea. I just shake my head and shift until I'm staring straight ahead again.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next. The remind myself he has a whole other life, in a whole other place part. The remind myself he's not the boy I remember part. "So, tell me about your life now. What's it like being a big shot in Chicago?"
Ransom's eyebrows shoot up, clearly surprised by the change in topic. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, and stares toward my shop. "It's fucking amazing. My life is more than I ever dreamed."
"The money?" I press, keeping my voice neutral. Money's never been something that mattered to me. Not until Maggie got sick this time. But still, I have enough. I will have enough for me and Max.
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "The money's fucking great. Anything I want, I can get." He grins. "Like that fucking beast of a car. But I have all the stuff I need. It's not really about that anymore."
"What's it about then?"
He turns, pinning me with those dark eyes. "Taking care of the people I love."
I nod, my eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder, the way he says love reverberating through my head. "You have people there? Friends, family?" Do you have a wife, children? Did you move on and forget all about me? I can’t decide if it will make it easier or harder if he does.
"I do," he says, his voice softening. "I've built a family. We're solid. My brothers all found women, and there are babies coming along now."
Brothers. He says it so casually, with so much warmth I have to fight back the bitterness. He has people close enough he calls them brothers. Why did he have to go away to find that? Why did he— nope. Forget it. "That's good," I murmur, fighting the urge to look at him directly. "Are you happy?"
Ransom shifts, lifting one knee on the seat so he can face me fully. I feel his gaze on my face, but I keep my eyes averted. "I'm... happy," he says slowly. "I've accomplished a lot. For a long time, everything I did was to make sure we were secure. Now, money's not something I ever have to think about again. My family is settled, and happy, so that's all I need."
I risk a glance at him, immediately regretting it when I see the intensity in his eyes. I look away quickly. "Really? If they're good, you're good?" I used to think the same way, if I'm being honest, but the last couple of years have taught me that I can't put every bit of my emotional security on the people around me. Because sooner or later, they're going to leave.
And I don't want to be left an empty shell when they go.
He sighs, leaning back against the bench. "Mostly. If I could go back and do all of it over, maybe I'd make a different choice. But my brother Colton, he has this thing about 'what if's.' We always think things would be better if we went back and chose differently, but there's no guarantee it would work out that way. It's just as possible that the road not taken is covered in steaming piles of shit."
Gross imagery. But damn effective. "I hadn't really thought of it like that." So many times I wondered what my life would have been like if Dad had stayed in the city, or if Ransom had never left, but in all my imaginings, I never pictured myself as worse off.
"But you're okay?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. Despite the hurt and pain between us, I want him to be good. Yeah, a few times over the last twenty years I wished he'd have to deal with male pattern baldness or jock itch, but I never wanted him to be really hurt or upset.
And that pissed me off for a long time. Hating someone and not caring what happens to them is easier than still having feelings.
"I'm okay," he confirms. "Are you?"
I nod, still not meeting his eyes. "I am. I have my work, my friends. It's a good life." It's the truth. And it's not. Because I have friends, but Maggie's not doing well. It's really fucking obvious, and she's going to be gone soon, unless there's a miracle.
I'm not above begging God for a miracle if it means I get more years with her.
And that Max gets to keep his mom.
Ransom shifts again, and I can almost feel him reaching out. I tense, and he seems to think better of it. "I'm glad," he says softly. "You deserve that, Blair."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. Words like why did you destroy me before you left and why didn't you come back? Finally, I stand up, needing to put some physical distance between us. "I'm going to go back inside. I have a few things to wrap up."
Ransom rises too, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Right, of course. Thanks for... this. For talking to me."
I nod, taking a step back. "Take care of yourself, Ransom."
As I turn to leave, his voice stops me. "Blair?" I pause, not turning around. "I hope you know, I really am sorry. For everything. For every single thing I said that hurt you. It wasn't about you. I just… I'm sorry."
I close my eyes, willing away the sudden sting of tears. "I know," I say softly, though I'm not sure I really do. How can saying those things to me not really be about me? "I know. It's enough now, Ran. It's enough. It's time for both of us to let the past go." Turning, I take a few steps, but it feels wrong. Unfinished.
I let myself turn back and really look at him. At the silver at his temples. At the lines etched into the skin around his eyes. At the wide, strong set of his shoulders. And I give him the words I need to say. The ones that will set me free.
I hope.
"I forgive you." His body shudders, and I take a step backward. "Go back to your life, Ransom. We're good." Then I turn and walk away, hoping I can leave Ransom and the weight of our past behind me.
Maybe one day, I'll be able to sit there again, with someone I love. Someone I can have a future with.
It's a nice idea.
I let myself daydream about it all the way back to the garage, and I don't look back once.
And it's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.