Page 18 of Life After You

I don’t bother responding. I punch in the code, and the phone unlocks with a quiet click.

A flood of notifications fills the screen. My fingers swipe through them, my heartbeat in my throat. Then I see it.

A location ping.

Mac’s phone has 10% battery left.

And she’s in fucking Portland.

I stare at the map, Route 5 stretching out before me like a goddamn lifeline.

"Got you."

I pocket Braden’s phone, my nerves thrumming with adrenaline. My muscles coil, ready to move. Relief and rage mix in my bloodstream, leaving me lightheaded. I’m already calculating how fast I can make the ride when the reality slams into me.

What the hell is she doing in Portland?

Heading back through the house, I double-check everything is locked and drawn. Nervous energy bubbles up, and I find myself grabbing paper towels and surface cleaner. I wipe down dust, check the bins, and head out to the garage—only to get an unexpected surprise.

A massive form covered in a dust sheet takes up most of the room. A thought occurs to me, and I smile. If I turned up on my Suzuki, Mac would kick the shit out of me for trying to take her cross-country on my bike—especially since she heard its nickname:The Widow Maker. No, this is more fitting. I click the garage open and return to my ministrations, taking the bins to the curb.

The street is alive with everyday bustle. A couple of white-haired neighbors—Mr. and Mrs. Larsson, if memory serves—are out with their caramel lab. They pause before picking up after their pup, offering polite waves. I return the gesture, scuffing my boots as I approach my GSX-R, resting on its kickstand.

I let out a slow breath, running a hand through my damp hair. The blue and white bike gleams in the midday sun. My fingers trail over the handlebars, a familiar comfort as I consider the road ahead. I swing my leg over, loosely resting my helmet on top of my head, and close my eyes, my jaw tightening.

"Mac, just what are you thinking, angel?" It doesn’t feel right being here without her. Had I done something wrong? If I had,would she have left the note? Was that a real goodbye? Did she not intend on talking to me or the guys again?

I shake off the thought. I can beat myself up after I get some answers. I pull my helmet down, cracking the visor a few degrees. Gripping the brake, I finger the clutch and twist the key. The engine purrs to life, the deep rumble echoing through the quiet neighborhood. The sound has always felt like home. I ease the clutch, guiding the bike slowly toward the garage, muscle memory taking over as I roll up to the door before killing the engine.

Stepping off, I wheel the bike inside. The cold-packed room is dim, daylight barely reaching past the threshold. The long fluorescent tube lighting hums above, casting a sterile glow. The scent of gas and transmission fluid lingers—a mix of copper, fumes, and something sharp like onion. It seeps into the concrete, the air, your skin.

I grab the dust sheet off the massive mound in the center of the space, and the fabric slides away with a whisper, revealing sex on wheels.

I don’t know how Braden found it—or if it was even legal—but one thing’s for sure: the car is a masterpiece. A work of art.

He never told me where he got it, only that he poured months of blood, sweat, and probably a few beers into building it. Before the band signed a record deal, before we had a single on the radio, Braden sank every dime he had into this thing. It wasn’t just a car to him—it was his car, his baby.

I run my hand over the blackout hood, smooth and cold under my palm. A thrill shoots through me. Braden once told me the original paint was inspired by the color of a Coke bottle, but he changed it to cherry black. I tried to convince him to go matte, but he felt it would take it too far from its heyday, and I got it. Restored to its former glory, a meaty 426 V8 Hemi under the hood, pushing out 425 horsepower.

When I look at this beauty, it’s not soda that comes to mind—it’s tequila shots off some college girl’s stomach. Salt on her skin, licked clean. The lemon taken with a kiss. I think of burgers, beers, and blowjobs. The American dream, all wrapped up in steel and chrome.

Braden only drove this beauty a handful of times after finishing it. He was afraid of scratching it, dinging it, breathing on it wrong. But I never understood that. A car like this deserves to run. To tear down highways and roar into the night. To hit the tire shop every six weeks from being thoroughly enjoyed. Christ, my own baby—God rest her soul—was a sister to this beauty. A 1971 Dodge Challenger.

I pause, taking a deep breath. It happens to be the same car Braden was in the night of his... No. No time for that now. Gotta go see a girl.

"I hope you don’t mind, brother, but I’m borrowing your ride." I know exactly where the keys are. Or should be, anyway—in a leather pouch in the top drawer of his Snap-on rolling cabinet. But when I get there, of course, the damn cabinet is locked. And the keys? Nowhere to be seen.

I head back inside, my resolve hardening. Memories dredged from the past hit me in waves. Running through the hall with a popsicle in hand, Braden chasing me with a water gun. If I knew cleaning would unleash a batch of repressed thoughts, I would’ve left the dust alone. Even looking toward the kitchen, where I was moments ago, I see a tiny Mac clinging to her mom’s leg for safety while their mom chopped vegetables for dinner. Then—poof. Gone. The house is dead silent again, aside from being fucking haunted by echoes of the past.

The emptiness is a sucker punch to the chest, pushing me into motion. Back in Braden’s room, I tear through his dresser drawers, the windowsill, anywhere he might’ve stashed the key. Nothing.

"Come on, Braden. Where did you hide your toolbox key, bro? Don’t make me bust it open."

I spot his doom jar—overflowing with crap he’d deemed important once. Receipts, rubber bands, paperclips, spare quarters. Batteries in sizes I didn’t think existed anymore—probably half-dead, but you never knew when he might need them, so into the jar they went. Hydrocortisone, expired in 2000? Yeah, important. Dios mío…

"Ah-hah!" There it is—the spare key to the tool cabinet. Buried under a couple of blunted thumbtacks and some electrical tape.

I head back toward the garage, saying a silent thanks to Braden and his parents for the good memories. I’ll make sure Mac visits their graves when she’s ready.

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