Chapter 16 #2
“How serious are you about this girl? I can help you, you don’t have to listen to your father’s words all the time. You’re allowed to feel, Ki.” He mumbles the last part, maybe scared of how I’ll react or ashamed to speak of him.
I remain silent. Internally I’m not afraid to admit that I may be drawn or find Sylvia interesting but externally it’s different. It’s not a feeling I can describe, it doesn’t fit into something so small.
“I’m being patient, getting to know her.” I tsk. “You know I don’t rush.”
He frowns. “That’s not an answer to my question, once again.”
“It’s an answer that matters though, right?” I cock an eyebrow and he nods.
“I guess.” He clicks his lighter shut and lets it go, looking at the calendar behind my head. “Thanksgiving is in a week as well as the Macy parade, have you decided if you're coming to mine or have your parents already got you?”
I roll my eyes at the mention of the shitty dinner my parents want me to attend.
“Mable would love to see you.” He adds. Mable is his mother. A woman too nice for the world but I love her. She’s the mother I always wished for.
“I would love to see Mable but sadly I have to attend my parents’ dinner first.” I snort before I can stop myself.
“Your mother still insists on prayer?” His eyebrows lift with surprise.
“As if she’d die without it. The fun part will be watching everyone fake liking each other, asking about school, my profession. It’s all rehearsed, of course, and I’m not the slightest bit interested,” I say as I pull one of my legs across the other.
“Most people like that though.” He shakes his head. “Your family sucks.”
“People only like lies that come warm. A holiday to pretend the past was polite sounds more degrading to me.” He doesn’t agree or disagree with my words.
My mockery doesn’t derive from the people who celebrate it with real gratitude, it festers from the lies my parents spill. The fake expression they put on when our other family comes down.
“Thanksgiving is good for one thing,” I say and he tilts his head in confusion. “They become predictable.”
He chuckles. “Man that's heartless. I hope this new girl brings back the boy I met when I was five.”
“He’s here. Just realized what the real world is like.” I chuckle and stand up.
“I hope so,” he hums. “Where are you going?”
He watches me walk across the room to my dresser and I grab a brown coat out.
“Out back, I need your help with something.” He nods and stands up, stretching his arms over his head. He throws his coat on and follows.
We step into the hallway and the floral, cloying scent of my mother clings to the walls.
I inhale through my nose and irritation spikes in the back of my mind.
With her here and spreading this damn perfume everywhere it’s starting to cause grave agitation.
I like the smell of things being clean, not smothered in fake scents.
The same perfume she’s worn since I was a child.
I look at the dull, picture framed walls. Each picture is frozen with fake smiles. My parents with their arms around each other and me wedged between them. I don’t even remember half of these, just the words: ‘be still, smile, stop being bad Kian’.
I hate these pictures. They tell a story that's farthest from the truth. Proof that I belong to two of the most annoying people and never agreed to it.
I turn my head away from my own smiling face, innocent Kian, the boy who had hopes and dreams. The boy who showed his father his drawings in third grade and got made fun of for feeling—for being a fucking kid.
When we get to the terrace I push through the glass doors with too much aggression, and Hayden notices.
“You ok, Ki?” I turn to him.
“Yeah,” I mumble.
The cold hits my cheeks mercilessly and I pull my v-neck higher up on my neck.
Our boots crunch against the heavy snow, but luckily it’s not snowing anymore.
Just frozen chunks of ice that should clear up a little in the next few days.
He tucks his hands into his jeans and follows me to the shed.
My father had someone build it for me when I got my bike for my 16th birthday.
He didn’t do it because he cared, he did it to get me out of his face.
I pull the keys out of my pocket and unlock the door. As we step inside I flip the light switch and hear the heat kick on, warming the cold shed.
“There’s central-fucking-heating in here too?” Hay's eyebrows lift.
“Yeah,” I mumble and walk up to my bike that's propped on its stand.
“Holy–fucking–rich.” He chuckles and looks at my bike. “You and this bike. I thought you rebuilt it?”
He lays his hand on the seat of my motorcycle and I push it on the ramp with his help.
“Things still wear down, it's nothing major,” I say once we have it settled on the ramp. “Now hold it steady.”
He grips the handle bars, his knuckles whitening as he plants his feet firmly on the ground.
“Perfect, now stay still. If you move my whole hand may be cut off.” He looks down at me as I crouch beside the rear wheel.
“Thanks for the heads up,” he grumbles.
I chuckle. “I won’t kill you but you’ll be helping me put my clothes on.”
He chuckles and adjusts his grip on the bars. “Jackass.”
My wrench, rag, and screwdriver are already on the floor beside me and I grab the wrench, loosening the bolts.
“You know, we did this so much as a kid but with bicycles,” he says.
I smile. “We did, even with the disappointment of our wheel falling off three rides later.”
“It didn’t matter as long as we hung out every Saturday morning.” He chuckles.
A sharp feeling passes through my chest. “Yeah and your bike was always worse than mine.”
“That’s because you liked fixing things. You’d nit pick all day until I let you fix it, I just liked riding.” He chuckles and the bike moves slightly.
“Keep it still, Hays,” I remind him and he adjusts his grip again. “Also who rides a damn bike with the wheel flat? That’s asking for an accident.”
“Dude, you know my father never let me get a new one. It was either ride on it, let you pump it up everyday or don’t ride at all and after a while I felt bad making you pump it.” I briefly glance up at his words.
“Someone had to make sure you rode safe and I didn’t mind it being me.” I huff as the last bolt gets stuck. “Hold still.”
I grab PB Blaster off the work bench and spray it on the bolt. “Rusty shit.” I’m satisfied with the amount I’ve sprayed and grab a new bolt from one of the cabinets.
The bolt comes off and I adjust the drum brake, my hands moving slow with precision. This bike is probably the only thing I'm proud of outside of my photography.
I tighten another notch and it begins to feel different. I test it once and then twice.
“Do you still strip down your bikes like you used to? I thought you really broke the last one when you did that,” he asks as I replace the break.
“I did.” I chuckle. “On purpose.”
He snorts. “Of course.”
I put the bolts back on and replaced the rusted one with a new one. As I finish up I put down the emergency break and pull it off my makeshift ramp.
“Now try to move it.” I say as I stand to my full height.
He pulls on the handles and it remains still. “Damn, what can you not fix?”
My life.
I wipe my hands on the rag and hang each tool back where it belongs.
“If you take things apart far enough you can always put them back together,” I say and throw the rag in a hamper behind me.
“The weird shit you spout is why we're friends.” He smacks my back and I laugh, pulling him into me.
Lessons and friends you make along the way stick better than family.