“You sure you don’t want a short stack before you head out?” My mom has been hard selling Dustin on her breakfast all morning.
“Mom, soon he has to drive for three hours straight. No. He does not want to have to unsnap his pants after cleaning his plate.” I shift my gaze to Dustin after rejecting my mom for him and he mouths, “Thank you.”
“Fine. They’ll go to waste, then—”
“No, they won’t.” Virgil takes the plate from her hand and slides into the open seat, eating his second plate of pancakes. We all quietly stare at him.
“What? I’m not driving the damn car.”
My dad finally ponied up and bought the damn RV of his dreams. I think my mom wants him to move all of his shit into it after this race so she can have a clean garage again and maybe park in there.
I personally look forward to borrowing it this summer and taking a long trip up through Wyoming with Dustin and Bristol. He has four weeks off on his schedule, and I want us off the grid.
“I guess I’m off. Virg, I’ll meet you at the track.”
Virgil mumbles a response that sounds like “okay” while chewing, and the rest of the room hollers good luck. Tommy’s already waiting for him in the pits. Douglas too. Bailey and her parents will sit with me in the stands. Bailey’s dad went to scout our spots. And Bristol will enjoy this race from the simulcast my dad set up, while she hangs out with my mom.
She’s the spawn of a racing family, but she’s still not quite ready to endure three hours in the spring heat while thousands of idiots guzzle beer and teach her more bad words. I take full credit for the S-H one. I’m working on it.
“We’ll walk you out,” I say, waving my hand to call Bristol to me. She slips from her seat at the banquette and runs to my purse, pulling out her latest piece of artwork.
“Ah, another one? These are lucky, you know. Although the last one—”
“Shhh,” I interject, holding my finger to my lips.
Dustin chuckles, cutting off his poor joke.
Bristol and I follow him outside to the golf cart waiting to drive him to the track. He turns and bends down so he’s at Bristol’s level and she sways side to side, holding her paper behind her back.
“Can I have my drawing?” he asks.
I haven’t seen this one. She said it was a real surprise. I just hope it doesn’t somehow look like a penis.
“Close your eyes,” she demands.
On command, Dustin does, holding his hands out and ready. Bristol whips the drawing around and sets it in his hands. It’s upside down, and she doesn’t really know her letters, so it’s hard for me to read.
“It kind of looks like that last one,” I say.
Dustin draws his finger along what seems to be a word.
“Is this me? Did you write Dusty?”
Bristol shakes her head. And suddenly, I see it. I cup my mouth as our daughter leans in and presses her hand on the scribbled word.
“Uh uh. It says Daddy. That’s you.”
The fat tear that falls from Dustin’s eyes lands on the paper. He scoops Bristol up and holds her tight, looking at me over his shoulder. I leave my hands over my mouth because I’m so in shock. Wonderfully amazing shock.
“Oh, my God,” he mouths.
“I know,” I whisper.
We have been talking about this for so long, trying to find a way to teach our daughter about her relationship with Dustin. Nothing about the way it formed is natural. Most of that was my fault, and the guilt I feel from it clawed at me for weeks—years.
Turns out we didn’t need to teach her at all. She just knew. Like the way Dustin knew in his gut that Colt wasn’t his father. He may have his blood, but he isn’t a single part of the man who stands in front of me now. My dad? He’s more Dustin’s father than Colt. And Alysha is his soul. As are we.
Family forms in the strangest ways, and sometimes you get lucky and fall in love with your best friend.
“I love you,” I say as Dustin stands and hands Bristol to me. Our girl clings to me like a monkey and I lean in to kiss her daddy on the mouth. His kiss lingers, long enough that I get to experience the joy of his stretching smile.
“I’m winning today,” he says against me.
I suck in his bottom lip and let go of it with a snap, backing away with a smile.
“I know it. Eat my dust.”
He winks then boards the golf cart, a little banged up but so much wiser.
25
Quin Bastion is a motherfucker.
I don’t mean that as a compliment, either. He’s three years younger than me, but that little shit drones on and on as if I’m an old man. He’s an arrogant little punk. He’s also really fucking good.
“You’ve got twenty-six laps left to lose him, Dust, but you’re gonna need tires.”
Fuck.
Douglas is such a pragmatist. I hate that car parts don’t magically regrow during a race. I know I have to pit, but I can’t. Not until Quin fucking Bastion does.
“I got it. Let me push it a little more.”
Douglas grumbles and I’m pretty sure he just ripped of his headset. He’s also dramatic. Over the years, he’s pulled that sucker from his head to make a point and pretend he’s walking out on me about twenty times. Maybe thirty. He’s not bailing over an extra lap or two on spent tires.
“Fine, but you’re going to lose traction.”
There he is.
I smile, and I’m glad the camera can’t pick up my smirk.
“I know,” I say.
My body aches something fierce. I’m probably down another rib, too. I’m not sure whether they can pierce things on the inside, but that might have happened. Twenty-six more laps and I can worry about that.
Quin and I have separated from the pack. Third place is a sweet distance behind us, and fourth even more. But my hold on first is iffy. I can’t seem to break away. It’s like every move I make he copies exactly, as if I’m carving trenches in my wake for him to simply roll along in. It’s maddening!
“You gotta chase.” Tommy’s voice breaks through. He rarely talks to me during a race. Mostly because his ideas usually piss me off. Like this one.
“Just get the tires ready,” I fire back.
I’m hitting the turn, the blur of red and white filling my periphery as I hug the line. I lean in, gaining every inch I can. And still, Quin is right fucking there.
“He’s gonna take you on a straightaway. Be ready. He won’t now, but when it’s time,” Douglas shouts.
I check my mirrors and watch Quin’s hood. That’s the tell, how much it wavers from side to side in my lane. He’s tight with me. He’s not moving. Not now.
“You need to chase!” Tommy’s insistent with his shit idea.
“Right, I heard you. That’s what second place does.” Fuck. I get ready for the next turn and hug close. This side is longer. Thank you, Phoenix, for the awesome egg-shaped track.
My routine is the same, and once again, Quin is on my tail, his hood in line, his movement from the line nonexistent. I hit the gas in an attempt to pull away and gain a foot or two of space, but it’s no use. I’m getting nowhere.
I slam my palm on the wheel.