Chapter 37 Cole
thirty-seven
Cole
Clever, mischievous, a little bit magic.
She sent me seven links in one afternoon. Purple, sparkles, stars, and one with cat ears that she marked "PLEASE" in the subject line.
I said yes to purple. I found the fox ears myself, white with orange-red tips, clip-on attachments that fit any helmet. I showed her a picture and explained what kitsune meant.
She stopped asking about cats.
Angelina required a safety demonstration before she agreed. I gave her three.
Now the purple kitsune helmet is pressed between my shoulder blades as I pull into Full Throttle's parking lot. Her grip has loosened over the past few weeks. First ride, she held on like I might evaporate, arms locked, face buried against my jacket, small body rigid against the wind.
Now she just holds on.
I ease into a spot near the entrance and kill the engine. The sudden quiet always takes a second to settle.
"That was the best one yet." Her voice is muffled through the helmet. "You went really fast on the bridge."
"You asked me to."
"I know. It was awesome."
I swing off first, then help her down. She's getting better at the dismount. Doesn't need me to lift her anymore, just a steadying hand while she finds her footing. The helmet comes off and her hair explodes in every direction, static-charged and wild.
She shoves her hair back with one hand. Doesn't help.
"Can you hold Kiku?"
She named the helmet. Of course she did.
I take it and tuck it under my arm.
Full Throttle smells like burnt rubber and adrenaline even from the parking lot. The building hums with engine noise, distant screams of excitement, the industrial drone of ventilation systems working overtime. Chesca's practically vibrating as we walk toward the entrance.
"I'm going to beat you."
"We will see."
"Jax says I have really good racing instincts."
"Jax lets you win at Mario Kart."
"That's what Xander says, but Xander's just mad because I beat HIM too." She tilts her chin up, challenge issued. "I've been practicing. Need for Speed. Jax showed me how to take corners without braking."
Video game training. Wonderful.
"Then I will have to be careful."
"Yeah." She grins, all teeth. "You will."
Inside, the noise swallows us. Engine whine, rubber on concrete, the hum of ventilation systems trying to clear exhaust. A teenager in a company polo leads us to the family track, karts capped at a speed Angelina would approve of.
I leave Kiku on the bench beside the pit area, purple shell facing out so she can see it from the course.
Chesca bounces on her toes while we wait, eyeing the course with the focus of a general surveying a battlefield.
"Okay." The attendant gestures to a purple kart. She gasps like it was destined. He helps her climb in. "Let's get you strapped up."
She sits still for the harness, but her leg jitters against the seat. Her first real race.
I crouch beside her kart. She adjusts the helmet, a standard track rental nowhere near as cool as Kiku, and it wobbles when she moves her head, too big even on the smallest setting.
"I'm going to beat you," she says again.
"You already said that."
"I'm saying it again so you remember." She straightens up.
The corner of my mouth twitches.
"That means you're scared."
Smart kid, too smart.
"Maybe."
Not of losing, but of this. Of her small hands gripping the steering wheel, her feet flat on the pedals, her quick tap of the gas that makes the kart lurch forward.
The attendant steps back and gives me a thumbs-up, then gestures toward the adult karts lined up on the other side of the track.
Chesca flashes me a look through the visor.
"You're going down, Cole."
I am, just not the way she thinks.
My kart is twice the size of hers, the engine louder. I pull up to the starting line beside her. She's already got both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, leaning forward like sheer will can make her faster.
The light turns green.
She has zero fear. Takes the first corner like she's been doing this her whole life, cutting inside clean, hitting the apex like she's done this a thousand times.
All those hours with Jax on Need for Speed, apparently.
My kart pulls even on the straightaway. She glances over, eyes narrowed behind the visor.
I could pass her. I map the racing line, calculate acceleration curves, identify three opportunities to overtake.
I don't take them.
She crosses the finish line first, arms shooting up even before the kart slows, screaming loud enough to drown out the engine.
I pull into the pit area behind her. By the time I climb out of the kart, she's already scrambling free, rental helmet askew, stumbling slightly as she runs toward me.
"Dad! Did you see how fast I was going?!"
The word hits me like a round I didn't see coming, center mass, no vest.
Dad.
I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stare at her while she grabs my hand with both of hers, tugging with all her eight-year-old strength.
"Dad, come on! I want to see my time!"
Already pulling me toward the lap time board mounted on the wall, digital numbers glowing red against black. Her helmet slips further sideways. She pushes it back one-handed and doesn't let go of me with the other.
"Look! Look at my time! I beat you by like a whole second!"
"I saw."
My voice sounds wrong, rough. I'm still standing where she dragged me, one hand flat against the board, eyes on her instead of the numbers.
"Can we go again? Please? I want to beat my own time."
Those gold-flecked eyes look up at me, wide and waiting.
"One more race." My hand finds the top of her helmet and steadies it. "Then we talk about something."
Her eyes go calculating.
"Is it a good something or a bad something?"
"Good. I hope."
She squints at me. "Okay. But I'm still going to beat you."
She does.
Second race ends the same way, her arms up, howling triumph, rental helmet sliding sideways as she celebrates. I coast to a stop and watch her through the plexiglass barrier.
The attendant helps her out. She barrels toward me again, and this time I'm ready when she crashes into my legs, arms wrapping tight.
"That was so fun! Can we come back next week?"
"Chesca."
Something in my tone makes her pull back and look up. The rental helmet finally slides off completely, and I catch it before it hits the ground.
Her hair sticks up in every direction, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"What?"
I kneel and put us at eye level.
"You called me something. During the first race."
She replays the moment in her head, brow furrowed.
Then her eyes widen.
"Oh."
She's quiet for a moment, just the distant engine noise from other racers, the rubber smell, the industrial lights overhead making her squint.
"I didn't mean—" She stops. Starts again. "I mean, I did mean it, but I didn't mean to say it out loud. Is that okay?"
Is it okay.
"Yeah, kiddo. It's okay."
"So I can..." She trails off, twisting the harness strap around her finger. "I can call you that?"
"If you want to."
"Do you want me to?"
The question lands like a blade, precise and clean.
"Yeah." The word comes out thick. "I do."
She doesn't launch at me immediately. Instead she tilts her head, considering, chewing the inside of her cheek the way Angelina does when she's weighing something.
"Can I also call you Tō-chan sometimes?"
My chest locks.
"You looked that up."
"Maybe." She's trying not to smile. Failing. "Is that okay?"
She looked it up. Both names, both languages, both worlds I've lived between, and this kid just claimed all of it.
"Yeah, more than okay."
Her whole face lights up and she launches herself at me hard enough I have to brace against the concrete to stay upright. Her arms loop around my neck, the rental helmet trapped between us, her voice muffled against my shoulder.
"Okay. Dad." A pause. Then, testing it out, careful with the syllables: "Tō-chan."
I wrap my arms around her and hold on.
We stay like that until her stomach growls loud enough to echo off the concrete. She pulls back, completely unashamed. "Can we get snacks now?"
I hand the rental helmet back to the attendant and let her drag me toward the snack area by two fingers.
She orders a blue slushie the size of her head without consulting me, then slides into a plastic booth that wobbles when she puts her elbows down.
Her tongue is already stained electric blue when she sticks it out to test the brain freeze situation.
"Okay." She wraps both hands around the enormous cup. "What's the good something?"
My hands are steady when I hold a weapon. They are not steady now.
I flatten my palms against the sticky table surface and anchor myself. Then lift them. Fold them in front of me. Give up and flatten them again.
"I want to ask you a question. An important one."
She stops mid-slurp. "More important than go-karts?"
"Yes."
The slushie goes down. Carefully placed on the table between us. She sits up straighter and gives me her full attention, occasionally distracted by sugar.
"Okay. I'm listening."
"I want to marry your mother."
Chesca blinks. Her eyes track across my face, reading micro-expressions.
"But I wanted to ask you first. If that's okay with you."
"You're asking my permission?" She sets the slushie down slowly, fingers lingering on the cup.
"Yes."
"Why?" Her thumb picks at the edge of the cup's label, peeling it back in a thin strip.
"Because you are the most important person in her life. And if I marry her, I am not just marrying her. I am joining your family. Becoming your—"
The word sticks.
Her voice drops, quiet and testing. "My dad?"
"If you will have me."
"I already said yes." She rolls her eyes, but her fingers tighten around the cup. "Like, five minutes ago."
"This is different. Official."
She picks up her slushie and takes a long, deliberate sip while maintaining eye contact, making me wait.
The vending machine hums in the background. Someone's kid screams with laughter from the track area. Afternoon light slants through industrial windows, catching dust motes suspended in the air.
Chesca sets the cup down. "I have conditions."
I sit back in the chair. Negotiation I understand. "I expected that."
"First." She holds up one finger. "You have to drop me off at school AND pick me up. Not just one."
"Done."
"Second." Another finger. "I get to come to the big building sometimes. Jax lets me win at video games and there's good snacks."
"I'll arrange it."
"Third." Three fingers up, but they curl back into a fist against the table. Her expression shifts, serious now in a way that makes her look older than eight. "You can't leave."
She doesn't say like everyone else. Doesn't have to. Eight years of just her and her mom says it for her.
I lean forward and wait until she meets my eyes. "Chesca. I am not going anywhere. Ever."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She studies me. Eight years old but she's seen enough to know promises can break, watched her mother check locks, saw her flinch at unexpected voices. Her hands flatten on the table between us, small palms pressing into the sticky plastic.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"You can marry Mom." She reaches for the slushie again. "But you have to ask HER too. I'm not doing that part for you."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. "Understood."
She bares her blue teeth at me. "Can I have another slushie?"
"You may have whatever you want."
Her eyes light up. "Forever?"
"Don't push your luck."
She giggles, swinging her legs under the table.
Chesca drains the last of her slushie with a horrible sucking sound. "So when are you going to ask Mom?"
"Still figuring that out."
"I can help plan it." She perks up. "I'm really good at plans."
"I will keep that in mind."
"She's going to say yes, you know."
"How do you know?"
"Because she looks at you the way I look at pizza." She tilts her head. "Like she wants ALL of it."
"Come on, kiddo." I stand and hold out my hand. "Let us get you another slushie before we leave."
She takes my hand without hesitation. "Red this time."
"Whatever you want." I grab Kiku from the bench on the way to the counter and settle the helmet under her free arm. "Don't fill up. Your mother's meeting us at the house, and Sal's making pasta."
"I can do both." She says it with the absolute conviction of someone who has never once been defeated by a meal.
Her fingers curl around mine and hold on like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Chesca fell asleep on Sal's couch ten minutes after dinner, still telling Angelina about every lap between bites of pasta. Sal waved us off before Angelina could argue. "When's the last time you two had a night alone?"
Now the drive home is quiet, the good kind. Angelina's hand finds my thigh, warm through the fabric of my pants, casual, like it's always belonged there.
"Did you have a good time with her?"
"Yes."
"She called you Dad. On the phone. When she was telling me about the race."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
"She did."
"You okay?"
The city slides past. Sunday night traffic, sparse but steady. Streetlights catching the hood of the SUV in rhythmic intervals.
"I am... more than okay."
Her hand squeezes. My right hand drops from the wheel and covers hers, thumb tracing her knuckles while I drive one-handed.
We drive three more blocks before she speaks again.
"I found something. While I was unpacking your boxes."
Her hand stays on my thigh. Doesn't move, doesn't squeeze. Just stays.
Every muscle in my body goes taut. I know exactly what she found.
"The rope."
"Angelina—"
"I want you to use it."
The SUV drifts toward the center line. My hand leaves hers and finds the wheel. I correct, force myself to breathe, keep both hands steady.
"What?"
"Tonight. I want you to use it. On me."
I nearly miss the turn onto her street.