“Naw, I’m good.”
“I’m serious.”
“I said I’m good.” I pick up my tools, drop them back into my toolbox and wish Eli would let it go.
He doesn’t understand. Years ago, before Chevy and Violet walked into the garage I was working at, I was an orphan. My mom had spent most of my life in prison, and her getting out during my senior year didn’t make me any less alone in the world.
Yeah, I had Noah, Beth, and Abby, fell in love with Rachel, and had met our other friends I consider family, but I never had a family. Those people who are bound to you by blood and have to love you—or at least tolerate you during holidays.
I’m grateful for the family I’ve chosen and wouldn’t trade them for anything, but to find out that I have a blood family who wants me, loves me, well, that still chokes me up. And to be honest, I still don’t know what to do with this newfound family.
Everyone has been nice. Friendly. Overly welcoming. They each have a hunger in their eyes for me to accept whatever it is they’re offering whether it’s a plate of food, a chance to join the conversation or a simple handshake.
The problem lies with me. When I get around my blood family, I close up. Way deep down on the inside, I want to be here, but there’s something that clams up, keeps me quiet—observing. Except when I work on cars. Then it feels natural, like being at home.
For the past few hours, I’ve been chatting with Eli, Cyrus, Hook, Man O’ War, and whatever members of the club have dropped by. The conversation is easy, like I’m back in the garage in my old neighborhood talking with Noah, Echo, Abby, Logan, and any other of our friends. We’ve not really talked about anything serious—just useless chit-chat while my hands are covered in grease—but now that the car is done, I’m brain dead on conversation.
I close the toolbox and straighten. “Is there anything else you’d like me to take a look at?”
“You know you could come down here to visit us, never touch a car and we’d be happy.”
I know. It’s what I want to say, but I can’t. It’s stuck somewhere deep in places where only Rachel’s been allowed to break through and enter.
Eli stares at me with his steady glare. He’s sizing me up for a fight. Not for a physical fight. Nothing in his body language suggests that. I’ve never felt threatened around any McKinley or anyone in the club, but I can tell his mind is working overtime. Searching for a way to win this battle to give me something in return for work I don’t mind doing.
“You’re my family,” Eli continues. “If you were raised here, you would basically be my son. Cyrus and my mom would have loved and cared for you. The moment I had gotten out of prison, I would have been involved in every second of your life. You have to know—”
“But I wasn’t raised here,” I cut him off. I was raised by the foster care system. Bounced from house to house. Some of them good, some of them bad. A few were awful. “I’m giving you the best I’ve got.”
“Isaiah,” he tries again.
“Let it go, Eli,” I say with quiet exhaustion. Enough for him to hear, but low enough for him to know I can’t. I turn away, give him a second to be pissed then move on with the day.
There’s shifting behind me as he readjusts his footing then he does what I need: moves on to small talk. “How’s work?”
My work, his work, Rachel’s work. I don’t do small talk with many people, but I allow it with the McKinleys. They’re trying, and though they might not know it, I am, too.
“Good. Pro-Performance’s been busy. The overtime money’s been good. Work’s been steady over at…” I stumble over Tom’s name, but continue, “the shop.”
Tom’s shop. Tom gave me a steady paying job when I was thirteen. It was he and Mack, the lead mechanic, who taught me everything I know about cars. Tom died a few months ago and left the shop to Mack. Mack’s health isn’t the best. His joints and bones plague him, and he’s looking to sell the shop and retire to Florida.
I make good money at Pro-Performance, the custom car shop, and don’t need to work at Tom’s to make ends meet. But I do work there on nights and weekends. I’ve told myself it’s to make extra money so Rachel and I can purchase a garage of our own. But it’s also because there are few things I have allowed myself to become attached to, and the garage is one of them.
“You okay?” Eli catches my slip.
“Yeah.” No. Tom dying, Mack selling the garage…it’s a lot of change I don’t care for, and it ends one of the streams of income that helps me reach my and Rachel’s dream. I pick up a few more tools off the bench near Eli, drop them into the toolbox and then place the box into the trunk of my car, which is parked next to Violet’s. Now it’s my turn to try.
“How’s the security business?”
Eli’s part owner of the security company that he and other members of the Reign of Terror run. “Great. Business is booming. Razor’s done a great job expanding our club and our customer base in the northeast.”
I nod because it’s all good to hear. Then there’s a moment of awkward silence as I close the trunk to my Mustang.
“How’s The Plan going?” Eli tries again.
The Plan—capital letters always included, when I think of the words. Rachel and I concocted The Plan when we were teenagers making out in the backseat of our cars. My part of The Plan: I work at Pro-Performance, grow my reputation in the custom car community, sack away as much money as I can, work at Tom’s garage to make additional money, and cultivate more relationships with future clients.
Rachel’s part of The Plan was to go to college and earn her degrees in business and electrical engineering—knowledge that will be helpful with newer-model cars. Rachel earned her degrees last year. Since then, she’s been working a desk job at her father’s company, soaking in as much business knowledge while she can, as we save the money we need to build our own shop. The timeline—we’ve got five more years of our ten-year plan.
After we buy the land and start building the shop, we’ll get married. For now, I live in a rat-infested apartment I barely let Rachel visit. The place is in a high-crime neighborhood and not worthy of her, but it costs next to nothing. To help save more money, she lives at home.
We’re on track for our dreams to come true, but sometimes, when I’m kissing her goodbye at night, our timeline feels too far away. “The Plan’s going well.”
“I think Oz is going to propose to Emily this weekend,” Eli says, and my eyes snap to his when I don’t hear happiness.
“You know?” I test the waters.
“Yeah. Oz asked me and her Dad’s permission last spring.”
“I thought you’d be good with them getting married.” Emily is his daughter, and Oz is like a son to him. As long as I’ve been around, Eli’s been in favor of the relationship.
“I am,” Eli says. “But Oz keeps trying to create the perfect moment, and I have a feeling with everyone coming home this weekend, he’s not going to find the scenario he wants. She leaves for Europe next week.”
I stare at him blankly. “If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. Oz and Emily are solid. Distance and time won’t shake that.”