Chapter Twenty-Five
Derby
Next month, I stand on Amelia’s porch with a dinosaur I meant to give August in Oregon and an air freshener shaped like a pine tree dangling from two fingers.
This is romance, apparently.
Nobody warned me it involved this much retail.
Now I knock.
Not because I have to.
Because I should.
It costs me more than I care to admit, standing outside a door I could open with one hard shoulder, waiting for a woman to decide if I come in. A month ago, waiting on a porch would have felt like weakness. Now it feels like the whole damn point.
The door opens fast.
Not Amelia.
August.
He stands in the doorway wearing dinosaur pajamas even though it’s late afternoon, one sock, and the serious expression of a tiny old man preparing to inspect a suitor for moral damage.
Blue Rex is tucked under one arm.
Princess Chomp is tucked under the other.
The kid looks me up and down.
Slow.
Judgmental.
“What are your intentions?” he asks.
I blink.
From inside, Amelia makes a strangled sound.
I look down at August. “Who taught you that?”
“Aunt Sophie.”
Of course she did.
“She said boys should ask.”
“Sophie is dangerous.”
“She also said if you say something dumb, I should shut the door.”
“That sounds like Sophie.”
Amelia appears behind him, cheeks pink and eyes bright.
Her hair is down, soft around her shoulders, and she is wearing jeans that hug her like they were made by a man with dirty thoughts and excellent priorities.
Her shirt is simple, black, tucked just enough to make me forget whatever smart answer I might have had.
She ain’t dressed up fancy.
She doesn’t need to be.
She looks like a woman standing in her own doorway, letting me see her because she chooses it.
That punches me in the chest harder than any dress could.
“August,” she says, “we talked about opening the door politely.”
“I was polite.”
“You interrogated him.”
“That is polite for court.”
I hold out the dinosaur. “Brought evidence.”
August’s eyes widen.
The dinosaur is way overdue.
He takes it with both hands. “What’s his name?”
“Your court. You name him.”
August stares at it with deep responsibility. “Throttle.”
Amelia laughs softly.
My heart does something embarrassing.
“Good name,” I say.
August nods. “He’s a road dinosaur.”
“Obviously.”
“What else did you bring?”
I hold up the pine tree air freshener. “For your mama’s truck.”
Amelia folds her arms. “Are you saying my truck smells?”
“No.”
“Derby.”
“I’m saying every truck deserves the opportunity to smell like artificial forest.”
August sniffs it. “It smells like Uncle Legend’s bathroom spray.”
I look at Amelia. “That tracks.”
She takes the air freshener from me and smiles like she is trying not to. “Thank you.”
August steps back, still holding Throttle. “You can come in.”
I look at Amelia.
She notices.
Her face changes in that small way it does when something gets past her fear and touches the softer place underneath.
She steps aside.
“Come in, Derby.”
So I do.
Not because the kid allowed it.
Not because I could.
Because she invited me.
The trailer smells like lemon cleaner and whatever candle Sophie brought over because she can’t enter a room without making it more expensive.
There is a new throw blanket on the couch.
A vase on the counter holding the grocery store flowers I brought last time, already wilting but still standing like stubborn little soldiers.
Her mother’s box sits on a shelf in the living room, not hidden, not opened either.
The place is still bare in spots. Empty wall above the couch. No rug yet. A stack of folded towels still in a laundry basket. Boxes in the corner. But it feels like hers.
I don’t toss my cut over a chair.
I ask with my hand lifted slightly.
“Where?”
Her eyes flick to the chair near the door. “There is fine.”
I hang it carefully.
August watches every move like he is grading me.
“You taking my mama on a date again?” he asks.
“Trying.”
“You got money?”
I hear Amelia inhale.
I stare at the kid. “Enough.”
“For dessert?”
“Probably.”
“For Mama too?”
“Definitely.”
He nods. “Good. She likes chocolate.”
“I know.”
Amelia’s brows lift. “You know?”
“I pay attention.”
That shuts her up.
Good.
Rare victory.
August looks between us. “Are you fake boyfriend still?”
The air changes.
Not sharp.
Tender.
Amelia’s hand stills on the counter.
I crouch in front of him because this ain’t a question for men to answer from above.
“No.”
His face falls for one half second.
I keep going.
“Not fake.”
His eyes widen. “Real boyfriend?”
I look up at Amelia.
This answer ain’t mine alone.
Her face softens, but she lets me have it.
“If your mama says so.”
August turns to her.
She smiles. Nervous. Brave. Mine to admire, not own.
“Real,” she says.
August thinks about that.
Then he holds Blue Rex toward me like I’m being sworn in. “Then you have to follow court rules.”
“I accept nothing without legal counsel.”
“You have to be nice to Mama.”
“That one I accept.”
“You have to not go to jail.”
Amelia looks away fast.
My chest tightens.
I deserve that.
I nod slowly. “Working on that.”
“You have to come back when you say later.”
That one hits harder.
“I will try very hard.”
August narrows his eyes. “That is not yes.”
“No,” I say. “It’s better than a yes I can’t control.”
He studies me.
Then nods like that passes.
Kids understand truth better than most adults. They just hate it too.
Janie arrives fifteen minutes later to watch August, armed with snacks, cartoons, and enough gossip in her eyes to make me want to fake a medical condition to escape.
She hugs Amelia, whispers something in her ear that makes Amelia blush, then tells me if I bring her back upset, she will pour sugar in Widowmaker’s gas tank.
“You wouldn’t,” I say.
Janie smiles. “No. But I know who would.”
August waves from the couch. “Bye, Derby. Bye, Mama. Don’t forget dessert.”
Amelia kisses his head. “Be good.”
“I’m always good.”
Janie coughs.
He adds, “Mostly.”
I hold the door for Amelia because I’m apparently civilized now, and we step onto the porch together.
Widowmaker waits in the drive.
Black.
Mean.
Polished because I got up before dawn and cleaned her like a nervous idiot.
Amelia sees the bike and stops.
The first night she rode with me, she looked at Widowmaker like death had handlebars. Now she looks at her like a dare.
“Can I?” she asks.
“Figured.”
“Bikers always want to ride.”
“You a biker now?”
“I learned to ride from a man who is emotionally bonded to an engine named Widowmaker.”
“Don’t shame our relationship.”
Her smile curves.
Then fades a little.
She glances toward the trailer, toward August in the window pressing Throttle to the glass so the new dinosaur can watch us leave.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“Liar.”
She sighs. “It’s still hard to leave him.”
“I know.”
“But it’s easier when I know he is staying somewhere that belongs to me.”
That lands.
Good and sad.
The way most true things have been with us.
I hand her the helmet.
Not Lottie’s Queen Bitch one this time. This one is new. Matte black with a tiny painted crown on the side.
She stares at it.
I stare at the bike because suddenly the gravel drive is fascinating.
“I saw it,” I say. “Thought of you.”
“You bought me a helmet with a crown?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird.”
“Fine. It’s practical. You need to let me buy you your own motorcycle.”
Shaking her head, no, she touches the little crown with one finger. Her hair falls forward, hiding the tattoo behind her ear.
But I know it’s there.
I always know.
“It’s beautiful,” she says softly.
I clear my throat. “It protects your head.”
“It does both.”
“Sounds inefficient.”
Her smile comes back.
She puts it on.
“I’m not riding bitch again,” I say. And I mean it.
Then she climbs behind me on Widowmaker without hesitation.
That almost takes me apart.
No stiff fear. No hovering. Her hands settle at my waist, then slide around me. Familiar. Still careful, but not because she is scared of the bike. Because touching me means something now and she treats meaning with both hands.
I start Widowmaker.
August bangs on the window and waves Throttle’s tiny arm.
I lift two fingers.
Then we ride.
Kentucky takes us in like it has been waiting.
Not the town routes. Not the Fire Pit yet.
Not the clubhouse. I take the back roads that curve past horse farms and tobacco barns, over low hills and beside creeks flashing silver in the evening light.
The air is warm. Her thighs hug mine. Her body leans with the curves now, trusting the ride enough to move with it instead of fighting it.
Every time she does, something in me settles.
We pass the turnoff for Hell Road.
I feel her hands tighten around my waist before I even slow.
Dead Man’s Curve waits down that road, tucked into trees and old stories.
The first place I found her. The place a blown tire stopped her from driving any farther.
The place where the Widow may have watched from the fog, or the weeds, or whatever corner of Hell roads keep for women who need saving and men who deserve wreckage.
I let Widowmaker drop speed.
I turn onto Hell Road.
Widowmaker rumbles beneath us, steady and low.
The trees close in, familiar and green-dark, their branches lacing overhead like the road is trying to keep secrets.
The curve comes slow. I don’t gun it. Don’t show off.
Don’t make the road prove anything. Amelia’s body stays tight against mine, but she doesn’t ask me to turn around.
We roll through Dead Man’s Curve like two people passing a grave they are not ready to visit but refuse to fear.
Nothing steps out.
No woman in white.
No ghost in the road.
Just wind through trees, a pale scrap of cloth caught on a branch near the ditch, and Amelia’s hands slowly unclenching at my waist.
On the other side, she exhales.
So do I.