Page 29 of The Two Last Moments

I’m out in the backyard, scowling at the cloudless blue sky. There’s a nip of fall in the air. I didn’t want to make this phone call, but I’m doing it for Nina. She has no idea I called Dad, of course, but I know she’d approve. I like being a good grandson to her. Least I can do.

“It’s day by day. Same thing I told you before. She’s in hospice, Dad.”

“Believe me, I know. I’ve seen the bills.”

I close my eyes, clenching my jaw.Do not scream. Do not curse. I don’t know how I share DNA with my dad, much less my name. “Are you going to get out here soon? Nina wants to see you.”

“I’m trying to work out my schedule. The end of the quarter’s coming up. You know how hectic that gets. Well, you probably don’t know. But trust me. I can’t just take a leave of absence on a whim.”

It doesn’t go much better from there. I wrap up the call as quickly as possible, then head into the garage, where I drop my phone onto the workbench and let out a massive sigh.

My father works for a mega conglomerate in London. The same company that bought his start-up back when I was a middle-schooler. My parents love it there, and they rarely return to the states.

Especially not to see Nina or me.

When I was a teenager, my grandpa’s garage was my refuge. It was at a different house back then, but the smells were the same. Motor oil, sweat, degreaser and metal. I used to help Grandpa with his ’68 Charger, the car I drive now. That car was his pride and joy. His second love after Nina.

A few months after I got my discharge, I was driving around West Oaks and saw a rare ’71 for sale. I couldn’t believe it. Its paint was riddled with rust, and the engine was shot. But right when I spotted it, I wanted it.

I wanted to believe I could put it back together. Make it just like new.

I can already visualize how this car will look when it’s done. Split grill, ducktail spoiler, all the original features. It’ll be shiny, midnight black. I still have a long way to go. I remember a lot of what Grandpa taught me, but I’m far from a mechanic. I’m better at treating people than machines.

I’ve relied on YouTube videos for the really hard stuff, and even then, I’m winging it. So it’s been a slow process, slowed even further by my firefighter schedule. I’m talkingyearssince I bought this baby, and it’s still not done. Sometimes I go weeks without touching it once.

Working on the car is a little like meditation. It’s good for me, healing for my soul, yet I’m not always in the mood for it. Even if I might need it.

But I’ll get there. I’ll fix it.

The side door to the garage opens, and Lark walks in. “I brought sandwiches. If you’re hungry.”

I grab a rag and wipe off my hands. “I’d love one, yeah. I didn’t know you were up and moving today.”

“Feeling slightly more human. Not so achy.”

“Sounds like progress.”

I was up around dawn. I went for a quick run, then had my usual coffee with Nina. It’s one of our rituals, though sometimes I sub in chamomile tea for her. Nights are often hit and miss for her, but something about the early morning light gives her a dose of energy. At least, that’s what she says. I feel the same way.

Yesterday, I alternated between time with Nina and checking on Lark in the guest room. I also kept a close eye on the cameras around our property, watching for anything suspicious. And I’ve kept in touch with Cliff, but there’s been no word yet from West Oaks PD about a suspect in her attack.

She slept nearly all day. When I saw her lying in that bed, unconscious to the world, she looked so fragile. At one point yesterday afternoon, she was under so deep that I crossed the room and put a hand beneath her nose to make sure she was breathing, like new parents do with babies.

I know that in her waking hours, she’s strong. Resilient. But now that she’s here, Lark is my responsibility. I don’t take that lightly.

She has a bite to her personality, and that draws me in. Whatever else she’s lost, she’s held on to that. Which must mean that it’s an essential part of her. Ingrained into who she is. She’s a victim, but she doesn’t cower like someone who’s accepted it. She’s not going to let the world keep her down.

“Remember anything new?” I unwrap the sandwich Lark just handed me and take a bite. Chicken salad. Not bad.

“Just the fact that I hate mayonnaise.” She lifts up her sandwich, which is nibbled along one edge. I hold out my hand, and Lark gives me the offending chicken salad.

“Thanks. I’m hungry enough to eat two anyway. There’s more stuff in the fridge. Mayo free.”

“That’s okay. I’ll grab another croissant from the breakfast spread. But who isthisgorgeous girl?” She circles the car and flicks her hair over her shoulder. It moves in a wave, catching the light, and I realize that’s the exact finish I want on the car when it’s done. That same inky shade of black. And I can’t explain why, but that thought makes my dick all kinds of interested.

“How many classic Chargers do you have around here?”

I finish off my first sandwich in three bites, setting the other on my workbench for later. “Just the two. The red one my grandpa restored, which you saw before, and this one’s my work in progress. I wouldn’t call myself a mechanic. An enthusiastic amateur.”

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