36. Jax
thirty-six
Jax
F orty-three hours, sixteen minutes since she left for London.
Not that I'm counting or anything.
I'm tapping out 2-1-5 against my thigh—February fifteenth broken into a nervous rhythm I can't stop. Tommy's death date. Thirteen years of muscle memory my body won't let me forget. The pattern helps when nothing else does.
Flight BA 268 from London: On Time
My phone lights up with her text from twenty-five minutes ago: "Through customs. Almost there."
Almost there. Almost home. Almost back where I can see her and touch her and know she's safe.
International arrivals doors slide open, and business travelers pour out in wrinkled suits, dragging luggage behind them like anchors. Family reunions explode around me—squealing kids launching themselves at grandparents, couples melting into each other after weeks apart.
Then I see her.
Black jeans, black sweater, single carry-on slung over her shoulder. She's scanning the crowd with that systematic sweep she does—left to right, cataloging exits and threats before she even thinks about finding me.
Always the predator, even in an airport.
Our eyes lock.
I move first. Six strides to close the distance between us, and she drops her bag at impact. Arms around my neck, mine around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground because I need her closer, need to feel that she's real and safe and here.
Her mouth finds my ear. "Missed you."
Two words that hit me harder than any confession of love.
She missed me. Mira Knight, who needs no one, missed me.
Someone clears their throat behind us—needs to get past—and we break apart, both breathing like we've been running.
I grab her bag with one hand, keep the other on her lower back as we move toward the exit. The familiar weight of her presence settles something restless in my chest.
"Your parents." Her voice cuts through the crowd noise. "When did you last see them?"
Where the hell did that come from?
The question stops me mid-stride. "Why are you—"
"Answer me."
That tone. The one that means she's already three steps ahead in whatever game she's playing.
"Three years. Tommy's death anniversary. It went badly."
She stops completely at the exit doors, turns to face me. "We're going there now."
What? No. No way.
"Mira, no—"
"You helped me get justice for my dead parents." Her eyes hold mine, and for a moment I see the sixteen-year-old girl who lost everything. "Let me help you reconcile with your living ones. I was sixteen when I lost mine. You still have yours. Don't waste what I'll never have again."
Jesus. When she puts it like that...
The comparison twists something sharp in my ribs. "They think I killed their favorite son."
"Tommy wasn't their son."
"Might as well have been. He was at our house more than his own."
She pulls out her phone. "What's the shop address?"
"Why?"
"Because you're going to be too busy dealing with your emotions to navigate." She types as I recite the address, fingers flying across the screen. "Good. Twenty minutes from here."
Twenty minutes until I face them. Twenty minutes to figure out what to say after three years of silence.
We reach the car, and before I can move toward the driver's side, she holds out her hand. "Keys."
"What?"
"Give me your keys. Your hands are shaking."
I look down. She's right. My fingers tremble like I've been mainlining caffeine for hours.
Pathetic. Can't even control my own hands.
"Then we give them their actual son back." She plucks the keys from my palm before I can argue.
Their actual son. Like I'm someone worth returning to them instead of the reminder of everything they lost.
Twenty minutes later, we're pulling into the familiar neighborhood. Mira drives the Mustang like she's been doing it for years, smooth and controlled while I sit in the passenger seat trying not to hyperventilate.
Same streets. Same houses. Same everything except us.
The streets haven't changed. Same cracked sidewalks where Tommy and I learned to ollie. Same corner store where we'd buy energy drinks before midnight races. Same everything except the two boys who owned these streets are gone—one dead, one might as well be.
"Tommy and I built a ramp in that parking lot." The words slip out as we pass a strip mall, my finger shaking as I point. "Spent three days dragging plywood and cinder blocks around. Launched his dirt bike clear over two shopping carts."
"How old were you?"
"Fourteen. Maybe fifteen." My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans, but they're damp again in seconds. "His mom found out and grounded him for a month. Mine just asked if we cleaned up after ourselves."
Simpler times. Before everything went to shit.
Mira glances at me, those sharp eyes taking in every tell—the bouncing leg, the fingers drumming Tommy's date, the way I keep tugging at my seatbelt like it's too tight.
"Tell me about the last time you saw them."
The fight. The ultimatum. The door slamming.
"Dad said I was selfish. Mom cried. I left." Each word feels like swallowing glass. "Not my finest moment."
"Why that day specifically?"
"They wanted me to take over the shop. Stop the 'driving instructor' work."
She merges onto the next street, following the GPS with precision. "They don't know what you really do?"
"They think I teach rich assholes how to race cars safely." The irony tastes bitter. "Which isn't entirely wrong, I guess. Just missing a few details about tactical driving and why the rich assholes have people trying to kill them."
If they knew the truth, they'd probably have heart attacks.
The RYDER AUTO REPAIR sign appears ahead, red letters against white aluminum siding that Dad repainted last year from the looks of it. Three service bays, all occupied. A Honda on the lift, a Ford getting new brakes, a BMW with its hood up. Business looks good.
They're doing fine without me. Probably better.
The smell hits me through the open window—motor oil and hot metal, rubber and that specific degreaser Dad's used since 1987. My whole childhood wrapped in automotive chemicals.
My chest tightens. "I can't do this."
"Yes you can."
"They hate me, Mira."
She pulls into the customer parking lot, right next to Dad's 1987 Chevy. Same spot he's parked it every day for the last twenty years, paint fading but engine purring because he rebuilds it every winter like meditation.
His baby. Unlike his actual son, that truck never disappoints him.
"They're terrified of losing you."
I stare at her. "How could you possibly—"
"Because when you got shot last month, I wanted to burn down the world." Her voice stays calm, but her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "And I've only known you three months. They've loved you for thirty years."
She wanted to burn down the world. For me.
She turns off the engine, meets my eyes directly. "They're going to cry."
"My mom doesn't cry."
"She will today."
Before I can argue, she's out of the car. I follow on autopilot, legs feeling like they belong to someone else.
This is really happening. After three years, I'm about to walk through that door.
The threshold looms ahead—office door with a bell that's been there since I was six, the paint worn where thousands of hands have pushed it open.
Through the window, Mom's visible at her desk, gray hair twisted up and held with a pencil, reading glasses perched on her nose like they've grown there.
Invoice papers spread across the surface, coffee mug with "World's Best Mom" that I made in third grade still holding her pens.
She kept it. After everything, she kept my stupid third-grade art project.
I stop at the door. Can't move. The familiar sounds wash over me—impact wrench from the bay, compressor cycling, classic rock from the radio Dad's had since the 90s.
Three years. Three goddamn years and I'm frozen like a kid who broke something.
Mira doesn't wait. Opens the door herself.
The bell chimes—same bright ding that announced every skinned knee, every report card, every triumph and disaster of my childhood.
Mom looks up. "Can I help—"
Her eyes find mine. "Jackson?"
Invoice papers scatter as she stands, chair rolling backward into the file cabinet with a bang.
She looks older. Smaller. When did her hair go completely gray?
Dad appears from the service bay, wiping hands on a shop rag that's more grease than fabric. "Marie, what's wrong?"
He sees me. His face cycles through shock, anger, hope—like a slot machine trying to find the winning combination.
"Three years. Three goddamn years."
I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.
"Dad, I—"
"You bringing trouble here?"
Same assumption. Same fear. I'm still just a problem to them.
Before I can respond, Mira steps forward. Something in her posture shifts—protective, claiming space.
"He's coming home."
Her voice carries that deadly calm that could make trained killers reconsider their choices.
My parents notice her properly now. Really see her—this woman who looks like danger in designer jeans.
Mom's hand goes to her throat. "You called yesterday. About our hours."
She called them? She planned this?
"I did." Mira's tone softens fractionally. "He needed to see you. He just didn't know it yet."
Dad's eyes narrow, suspicious morphing into something else. "You're real. He mentioned someone once, but we thought..."
"Thought he made it up to avoid talking about settling down," Mom finishes.
Even now they're trying to understand my life through their lens.
Mira's mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like a blade being sheathed. "I'm very real. And he needs to tell you something."
Thirteen years of words stuck in my throat. Where do I even start?
"I'm sorry." The words crack coming out. "About Tommy. About leaving. About the shop. About everything."
"Stop. Just stop."
Dad's voice breaks on the second word. Mom's hand covers her mouth, tears already tracking down her cheeks.
She is crying. Just like Mira said.