“Did he ever ride it?” I ask.
“Yeah.” With his hands shoved in his pockets, Eli looks at the bike like he’s lost in a memory. “One of the last things he did was rebuild the engine. The frame was a mess, but James rode it. I still remember the huge smile on his face when he heard it rumble for the first time. He and I, we rode around for hours after he got it working. That’s still one of the best nights of my life.”
I think of Noah and all the nights he and I play basketball, shoot the breeze, sit in silence, and are there for each other. I think of Logan and how we work on cars together and still race each other at the local dragstrip. I think of Chevy and how he and I have formed a bond over the hours playing pool in smoky bars. Those have been some of the best nights of my life, too.
I glance up and standing on the other side of the motorcycle is Rachel. She’s watching me with her beautiful, kind, blue eyes. I incline my head to the bike, and the right side of her mouth tips up. Want to ride?
“Are you asking?” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Then sure.”
“Hey, Eli?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“I hear you’re going to need a paint job on your motorcycle. Why don’t you bring it to my garage in Louisville for the work? Then I can drive you back in a real piece of a machinery—my Mustang.”
Eli’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean I need a paint job?”
“On a night like tonight, is it important?” I ask.
He immediately shakes his head. “Naw. I have a feeling this is also going to be one of the best nights of my life.”
I gesture toward the bike. “Does this thing have keys?”
He tosses the key to me. Shouts of approval and applause come from all around us as I straddle the bike and then help Rachel hop on. I start the engine, and there’s a satisfaction I wasn’t expecting.
I’ve been on motorcycles before, but this ride feels different. Like how I felt the first time I got behind the wheel of a Mustang, the first time Noah and I laughed together, and the first time Rachel wrapped her arms around me. It feels like home.
The crowd parts as I edge the motorcycle forward and soon others are mounting their bikes, starting their engines. Then there’s Eli on his bike beside me, grinning, as if the paint on his motorcycle is exactly the way he intended for it to be. He tilts his head for me to take the lead, and with my new family behind me, I do.
Chapter 43
Rachel
“Rachel,” Isaiah says softly. His fingers gently touch my face. I suck in a cleansing breath as I turn my head toward him and open my eyes.
I’m in the passenger seat of his Mustang. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the ride home from the McKinleys, but it had been a fun and exhausting evening. First Emily and Oz’s engagement, then the motorcycle ride with the club, dinner with the club, then hours talking with friends and family.
Eli and Cyrus invited us to stay with either of them. Usually, we do stay, but Isaiah insisted that we head home, even though dawn was going to be breaking soon. As I was hugging and saying goodbye to people, I saw Isaiah deep in conversation with Eli and Cyrus. Whatever it was Isaiah was saying, they were intent on listening and even seemed to be offering advice. The only thing I heard was that they understood why he wanted to head home.
I was curious as to what they were talking about—I’m still curious—but Isaiah will tell me when he’s ready.
I blink away my exhaustion to find the morning sun reflecting against the windows of Tom’s garage. The place is old and more than a little rundown, but it’s well loved, and I’m one of the people who adores it. Still, I frown, confused about why we’re here. I was half expecting him to take me to his apartment or my parents’ house, but Tom’s garage wasn’t on my list.
Combing a hand through my hair, I feel the thoughts start to connect. “Did the Mustang start acting up on the way here?” I told him that the radiator hose was wearing thin, but he was all insistent that it could last a bit longer.
“No, I want to show you something.”
I make a point of looking at my watch then slowly raise an eyebrow. It’s seven in the morning and besides my short nap, we’ve both been up for over twenty-four hours. “Show me what?”
He cracks open his door. “It’s inside.”
Stretching my stiff and lazy muscles, I also open my door, get out then shut it. I take a step and my leg gives. My hand slams downward, toward the car to steady myself, but I come in contact with Isaiah’s hand. He places his other hand on my hip to help until I find my balance.
Since the car accident when I was a teen, when I’m exhausted, the muscles in my legs sometimes decide not to work right. Isaiah knows this, and I shouldn’t be surprised to find him by my side.
“I can carry you,” he says.
He would, too. I test my leg and it’s strong enough to hold my weight, so I shake my head. I keep his hand though, and we walk at my slow pace for the garage. Inside, I glance around, wondering if there’s some car he’s taken on he wanted to show me, but there’s nothing parked in or around the garage and there’s nothing on the lift.
In fact, besides some of Isaiah’s tools and all of Mack and Tom’s tools, there’s nothing here. After Tom’s death, Mack and Isaiah cleaned out the place so the realtor could show it.
There’re no filing cabinets full of papers, no desk scattered with notes. Tom’s coffee mug is gone, and so is Mack’s whiskey bottle. The trash can that was typically filled with old take-out containers is no longer in the corner, and the tiny bathroom no longer has the single, ancient plug-in.
What I do see are memories. So many of them. The first time I walked in to find Isaiah with his shirt off, sweating over the open hood of his Mustang. The hours we’ve spent laughing and talking and working on cars together. Then the kissing—oh, the many kisses that have happened here. Then there was the night that Isaiah pulled the blanket out of the trunk of his car and we—
“You okay?” Isaiah asks.
“Tired, but I’m okay. I’m going to miss this place.”
“What if you don’t have to miss it?”
I lean against the wall next to the empty office and try to wake my groggy brain. “I don’t understand.”
Isaiah surveys the room like he also sees the same memories I do. I bet he sees a lot more. This place was one of the first that ever felt like a home to him. He finally hitches his thumbs in his jeans and leans on the opposite wall from me. “The Plan.”
“We have one.” Five more years and counting.
“What if I wanted to change some things up?” He shrugs. “Like I move out of the shithole I live in and get a new apartment?”
I visibly sag with relief. I hate to see him living in that rat-and-drug-infested, violence ridden, poor excuse for a building. I know Isaiah grew up tough, that he can take care of himself, and that the rent there means he has been able to save a ton of money for our Plans, but I’ve been begging him for years to move.
“I would say that’s the best ‘give’ you’ve ever given me. Can you please get a place where you feel comfortable with me staying the night? Or…” I look away, feeling as insecure as I did when Isaiah and I started dating, “maybe a place where you’d be comfortable with me moving in.”