Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
JAYSON
Forgiveness
I’ve been parked in front of Randy’s Custom Auto for a while, just staring at the damn place, not able to go inside.
Several of the bays are open, each one with a different car and a different mechanic hunched over its engine.
Every once in a while, the loud whir of an air wrench muffles out the other sounds of tools clanging as they’re dropped back into their trays.
Marcus saunters back and forth from the car he’s working on to a workbench, stopping briefly to talk to another mechanic when they approach him. It freaks me out how much he looks like Ry.
“Hey, man,” a guy says, walking over. He pulls a towel from the back loop of his work coveralls and wipes his hands with it. “Bringing your car in?”
“Uh, no. I’m here to see Marcus.”
He glances over to his right. “Bossman is in bay one. I’m Tate.” He holds out his hand, and I shake it.
“Jayson.”
“I figured. You look just like your brother. Ryder used to have a photograph of the three of you on his desk in his office. He talked about you a lot. It’s nice to finally meet you in person. Put a face to the name and all that.”
Hearing that Ry never gave up on me strangles my goddamn heart. “You knew Ry well?”
Tate leans back against the side of a Dodge Ram, the thick, grease-stained muscles of his arms bulging. “Since I was a kid. Started working for him when I was sixteen. Part-time after school because I knew he’d kick my ass if I dropped out. Once I graduated, he took me on full-time.”
Loyalty. Ry was that kind of person. He inspired people. He was a person someone could look up to and want to emulate because he personified everything a good man should be.
“How’s Marcus handling things?” I ask. I can only imagine the responsibility he had to take on at such a young age when Ry passed away. How difficult it must have been for him to have just graduated high school and run a business at the same time.
“Better than any of us expected. He works harder than he should, in my opinion.”
Grief can do that to you. It’s a coping mechanism.
I should know. Throw yourself into something else—work, sex, alcohol—in order to take your mind off the one thing you can’t escape.
But that kind of fix is a cruel illusion and doesn’t solve anything because what you’re running from always catches up to you.
Crossing the garage toward the front office of the main building, Marcus happens to glance our way and halts in his tracks when he sees me. He heads in our direction, a stern scowl on his face.
“Nice meeting you, Tate.” We bump fists.
“Same.”
“Josh needs help with the GMC,” Marcus says to Tate, who nods and walks off. Crossing his arms over his chest, Marcus glares me down. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to apologize for what happened last night.”
“ You want to apologize to me for punching you? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“Not in this case.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Whatever floats your boat, man. But I promised Mom I would apologize, so…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, especially in front of my girl.”
“Next time you go for a forward cross, you’ll want to transfer your weight from your back foot to the front foot as you extend your arm. It generates more power.”
He barks out a laugh, a grin splitting his cheeks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
A hot eddy of wind funnels between the cars, and I push a hand through my hair to tame it back down. “I also wanted to explain why I couldn’t come when you called. Liz deserved to hear it from me first.”
His tense shoulders drop. “You talked to her?”
“A little while ago.”
A car pulls in and slows down next to us, its passenger window rolled down. “Where do you want me to park this? Cam said he won’t be able to get to it today. He needs to finish the Chevy first,” a guy says.
“I’ll start on it once I’m done with the Honda. Take it to bay five.”
The guy lifts his chin and slowly drives off.
“You’re busy. We can talk later.”
“We can talk now. Come on in and have some coffee,” Marcus insists.
His no-nonsense tone has me following him. “Sure.”
Taking me through the garage, the familiar scents of grease, metal, and gasoline stir old memories as we enter.
The cavernous space echoes with the occasional burst of laughter from the mechanics at work.
Overhead lights reflect off the polished concrete floor, streaked with grease stains and tire marks, a testament to years of hard work.
A couple of cars are lifted on hydraulic jacks, and a few custom-built dirt bikes are parked along the side wall, each one bearing the bold, colorful decals of the garage’s motocross team and sponsorships.
The team logo is also painted across the back wall in hues of bold red and black, and a few banners hang from the rafters, depicting action shots of riders midair, caught in moments of fearless acrobatics.
The garage seems bigger—different—but the soul of it remains the same. The place is alive with energy, the kind of controlled chaos I used to live in every summer with Ry when we would hang out and talk while he worked.
As my sneakers scuff against the floor, tracing the same paths I walked as a teenager, my gaze drifts to a familiar corner of the shop where Ry’s Hellcat used to sit, its hood often propped open as he tinkered with one thing or another in its engine.
Those summer days come rushing back. Nostalgic days when Ry dreamed of racing, and I was content just being here with my best friend.
“Place looks good,” I comment when we get to the back office.
Marcus shuts the door and gestures for me to take a seat in the armchair across from the desk. I notice a neatly folded pile of blankets and a pillow sitting on the love seat.
“You sleep here?”
Marcus rounds the desk and sits down in the executive chair. “Sometimes. I still live at home with Mom.”
I prop a bent leg over a knee and take in my surroundings. This used to be Randy’s office. I assume it was Ry’s, too. Framed photographs adorn the walls, along with a multitude of trophies that sit proudly on the floor and on the shelves of the bookcase.
Knowing I’m overstepping, I ask anyway. “Because you want to?”
“Because that’s where I’m needed.”
Our eyes meet at his not-so-veiled insinuation. “You look just like him.”
His light copper eyes sadden. “It’s hard for Mom to be around me sometimes, especially on the bad days…because I resemble him.”
Jesus.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her or for Ry…
or for you.” Steeling my nerves and hoping for the strength to get it out, I say, “I let down everyone I love because I chose alcohol over everything else. I’m an alcoholic.
” Marcus’s eyes widen slightly. “The day you called, I had just checked myself into rehab. The weeks of detox were bad, but the intense therapy that followed, the self-reflection, and owning my fuckups were worse. I wanted to be in a good place when I came back. I thought I had more time. When I got out, it was too late. Ry was gone. I spent that first night of freedom getting drunk at some biker bar. It hadn’t even been five minutes after I walked out the door before I was heading straight for the nearest bar.
I put myself back in the program the next day and didn’t leave until I knew I was better.
” I fiddle with the medallion on my necklace. “Over one year sober.”
Marcus sits back in the chair, a look of sympathy mixed with understanding marring his expression. “Shit, man. I didn’t know.”
“No one did. Not even Jules.” It was a battle I had to do on my own. Prove to myself that I could.
“And you told Mom all this?”
“Yes.”
He roughs a hand over his face and stands up. “Dad wanted you to have these.” He picks up a banker’s box from the floor in the corner and offers it to me.
“What is it?” I rise from the chair and take the box from him. It’s not that heavy.
“Letters. One a month for every year you were gone.”
“He wrote me letters?” I do a quick mental calculation. There must be over two hundred and forty letters in here.
The box that had felt like it weighed nothing suddenly feels like it weighs a ton, and every bit of the pressure sits directly on my chest as emotions literally strangle me until I can’t breathe.
“I haven’t read them,” he quickly says. “But I couldn’t keep them at the house for obvious reasons.”
Because of Liz.
I cradle the small cardboard box in my arms. “Thank you,” I tell him, barely able to get it out.
“Uncle Jay,” he says when I open the office door to leave.
Uncle Jay. Fuck me. I’m really going to lose my shit and bawl like a baby if I don’t get out of here.
“Yeah?”
“Dad also wanted me to tell you something.”
I try to hide the first tear that slips free. “What’s that?”
“He said when I saw you, to tell you that he loved you.”
And then I break. Completely.
“I loved him, too,” I reply on a stifled rasp.
I rush out so I can cry in the privacy of my shitty rental car.