Page 52 of Brash for It
“Thank you,” I whisper into the dark, and I’m not sure if I mean for today, for the months, or for the way he lets me be in charge of me.Maybe it’s everything.
“Anytime,” he mutters.“Captain.”
I laugh into his skin.“Okay, First Mate.Next thing tomorrow: DMV.”
He groans like a man being told to eat his vegetables.“We’re very brave.”
“We are.But the time passes quicker when we’re together.”
He gives me a squeeze, “you are not wrong, darlin’.”
Sleep comes faster than I deserve.
Two days later, I’ll forget where I put the certified receipt where I mailed the keys back for twenty minutes and almost cry because I think I’m a mess again, until I find it in the pocket where I keep ChapStick and spare cash and swallow a laugh that shakes me.I’ll writereceipts folderon the list.I’ll buy a folder that’s ugly but strong.I’ll label it with my name.
For now, I don’t need a folder.I need this bed, this arm, this quiet.I need the memory of watching my past get winched onto a flatbed and hauled away while I climbed onto something that moves forward because I tell it to.
Boat, bike—whatever it is, I am finally the one holding on because I want to, not because I’m afraid to fall.
And nothing I’m building on here will be towed away from me again.
Thirteen
Pretty Boy
The first thingthat hits me when I walk through the door is silence.
Not the kind of silence that’s natural.This is different.This house hasn’t been quiet since the day Kristen stepped into it.She fills space without even trying.Her shoes by the door.Her humming in the kitchen.The sound of her blow dryer in the morning.The way she leaves the bathroom light on low, swearing it helps her sleep.
Now?None of it.
Three days on the road with my brothers, a run that was all grease and adrenaline and too many hours hunched over handlebars — it’s the kind of ride that sticks in your bones.Usually I come home ready to crash, let the bed take me, let the walls remind me I’ve got a place that’s mine.
But tonight, the bed’s too still.The air too empty.
Kristen isn’t here.
I drop my bag by the door, keys in the dish.The house smells like lemon cleaner and faint coffee, like she tried to leave it nice for me.There’s a folded blanket on the couch, a mug in the sink.Signs of her everywhere.Just not her.
A part of me bristles at that.The part that doesn’t like needing anyone.The part that doesn’t want to admit I counted on her being here, counted on the sound of her voice when I walked in.
I grunt, shaking it off.Can’t stand here like a stray left on the porch.I need to wash the road off me.Three days of sweat, smoke, exhaust.The kind of grime you can’t just wipe away with a rag.
In the bathroom, I strip down, toss my clothes in the hamper.The mirror shows a man with tired eyes, road dust in the lines of his face, hair matted from a helmet.Not my best look.I flip on the shower, steam billowing fast in the small space.Hot water, pounding.That’s what I need.
Stepping under it’s a damn relief.The heat soaks into muscles wound too tight, rinses away the ache in my shoulders, slides down my chest.I brace my hands on the tile and let the water hammer the back of my neck.For the first time in three days, I start to feel human again.
I close my eyes.And I see her.
Kristen, curled up in bed with my shirt swallowing her frame.Kristen, laughing with a glass of wine on the porch.Kristen, looking me dead in the eye while she told her ex to get the hell off our property.Kristen, smiling and giving me a wave from behind the glass door of her work when I drop her off.Even though, she has a license and does drive herself when I can’t, I find I like taking her to and from work.It starts my day off right having her wrapped around me on my bike.
It hits harder than I want to admit.I missed her.
I tilt my head back, let the spray drown the thought before it can turn into something too big.I’m not a man built for missing.Not supposed to be, anyway.
The bathroom door creaks open.
I snap my eyes open, turn my head.
