Rusty’s was different though.
Though even as I sent it off, I was already lowering my expectations to a realistic zero. Mom loved to hand out pearls of wisdom like candy. Never have expectations was one of her favorites. As soon as I’d stopped setting my sights on specific goals, my life was more carefree.
“Good,” Charlie said. “Because we’ve got a few candidates we’re looking at for our open position here, and you’re one of them. I don’t really do in-person interviews as much anymore. I prefer to hire mechanics on a trial basis and see how they do in person, evaluate their skills and capabilities on sight. I’m assuming you’re interested in being considered?”
You could always stay longer if you wanted.
Pop’s voice dragged me back to the present, to that ache I’d had since getting here. Though I’d never not gotten itchy feet before, so this time wasn’t going to be any different.
“What, uh…” I cleared my throat. “This is for the custom builds mechanics job, right?”
“Yeah, it is. Job would start in two weeks.”
That would mean leaving right after the benefit concert. Los Angeles appeared in my mind—all palm trees and big beaches and smooth, easy sunshine. Gorgeous women and bright lights and famous rides along the coast. What could possibly keep me from going? Roots only held you back.
“Of course, I’m interested,” I said, rubbing a hand across my jaw. “Thank you for even considering me. It’s an honor.”
“Yeah, okay,” Charlie said. “I’ll be in touch.”
I stared at my phone for a few seconds after he hung up, sure I’d imagined the call. Now I had this… this expectation that I could be working a dream job in California in under a month. Hope was trying to wiggle its way in, like a weed growing in a garden. But hope was dangerous and almost always led to being let down.
Being let down wasn’t my fucking deal.
Letting out a big sigh, I slipped my phone back into my pocket, slightly confused. And also… excited. Los Angeles. I could see myself riding down Rodeo Drive beneath a cloudless blue sky and flirting outrageously with every bikini-clad aspiring model on the beach.
Except, and this was weird, but every time I tried to picture those women, I only saw a certain smart-mouthed spitfire.
I was so fucking distracted I almost walked right past the building I was looking for. It was bright white brick with garage style roll-up doors. Across the top, in neon lighting, read The Mateo Rivera Gallery.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, grin stretching across my face. I slipped inside the doors, taking in the white walls and the lighting and the paintings of New York done in Mateo’s style. The style he’d started developing when we were in middle school, a style that was part graffiti art, part comic book illustration.
“Holy shit,” came the voice I’d grown up with. I turned around, brows raised in greeting, as Mateo Rivera walked toward me looking like a hipster city artist. Black shirt, black pants, long black hair tied back into a bun. He had light brown skin covered in as many tattoos as I had and a short beard, which was new.
As was the look on his face, which wasn’t the constantly amused expression I remembered. Mateo looked pissed.
I held out the coffee and lifted a shoulder. “The prodigal son returns. How the hell are ya?” I was loose, expecting us to hug immediately.
But Mateo crossed his arms, keeping his distance. Ignoring the coffee—which was his favorite.
“Max?” he said like he didn’t recognize me.
“Hell yeah.” I grinned. “Surprise. I’m back in the city for a bit and thought I’d come see your new space. Pop told me all about it.” I held out the coffee, assuming I was misreading his face.
But he only narrowed his eyes at me. “Where the fuck have you been?”
14
Max
Where the fuck have you been?
I laughed, but it sounded more nervous than amused. Mateo took the coffee from me, thank god, but was still glaring.
“Uh… I’ve been gone. Around. Working at different shops.” My stomach was twisting into complicated knots. Until I saw him in person, I hadn’t realized how much I’d fucking missed my best friend. The person who’d known me since I was ten years old, who understood me more than anyone else.
I didn’t really have friends like that currently.
“Max.” Mateo was shaking his head, but that pissed look was slightly less glare-y. Still frustrated though. “It’s like seeing a fucking ghost, hermano. Come on back to my office so I can be mad at you in private.”
I followed obediently, secretly pleased that he’d at least called me hermano. The second we stepped into his office—just as brightly lit as his gallery space—he sat back on the edge of a large wooden desk and nodded at a chair. I sank back into it, hooking my ankle over my knee.
“Guess I expected a warmer welcome,” I said, still trying to make a joke.
“Guess I expected my best friend to stay in touch for the last seven years and not ignore my calls.”
I sat up straight, leaned forward, pain burning in my chest. Fuck. He was really mad at me.
“I’m not saying I’m not happy to see you. Because I am. But you gotta realize that you left and never called me again. Even though I called you all the time. Texted you and emailed those first couple years, thinking you’d reach back out. We’re practically family, and I didn’t even know where you fucking lived.”
I clenched my jaw, flexed my fingers on the arm rests. A hot rush of guilt came over me because, yeah, I remembered not picking up those calls. Not answering those messages. I was living a new life. Traveling constantly. Meeting new people.
I told myself I’d call my best friend back eventually.
My gut twisted on the word eventually. Goddammit. I was always on this honesty kick, making sure people understood what I did and didn’t do. That was what my mom had done. Even though she was a pretty unpopular person on the block after she divorced Pop. But that, to me, took even more courage. This wasn’t the life for her, and she’d made the hard choice to be honest. I’d done that my entire life and found it usually made things easier.
This wasn’t easy, that was for damn sure.
“Mateo. Shit. I’m really sorry. I didn’t even… I didn’t think…” I blew out a breath since he wasn’t jumping in to help. “I figured I’d see you when I see you. You know how I felt about this city, about wanting not to be tied down. I thought I’d been honest about that.”
Mateo sipped his coffee and kept me waiting. “Sure. I know you, Max. I know what you’re like. But even if you’re honest with people, it can still fucking hurt. Were you never going to talk to me again?”
“That was never the plan,” I said swiftly. “I’m being for real here. That thought never, ever crossed my mind. On the road I still referred to you as my best friend, to anyone who asked.”
“Friends have to talk though, right? Friends have to care about each other, even if they’re a thousand miles away. Rafael and I finally assumed that you weren’t interested anymore. We’d see Pop at The Red Room. He’d tell us you were doing okay, and that was all we had.” A bit of lightness came over his face. “You know my mother is going to straight-up kill you, right?”