The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  Shane’s not nervous; he’s upset. Upset and hurt that in his darkest hour I never thought to adopt him, choose him, and now all of a sudden Zander’s in this situation and Colton obviously told him his suggestion when never in a million years would I even consider it.

  The twister spins out of control. Anger, betrayal, compassion, despair, love. They all whirl inside me. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t speak. And yet the feelings within me are so violent, crashing into one another without recourse, that I can’t process them. I begin to shut down. Crawl with my tail between my legs into the darkness because obviously I thought I was stronger when I’m not.

  I need my bed. To pull the covers over me and to try and quiet the riot in my head, but I don’t move. Instead I start to hyperventilate, my lungs convulsing as panic takes over my body, so all I can do is sag back down into the couch to try and catch my breath.

  Colton’s at my side in an instant. His eyes are alarmed, but hands are gentle as he rubs my back and tells me he’s there. My body burns for oxygen, my blood on fire, and my head starts to become dizzy. I clutch my head in my hands, desperate for some kind of control.

  “No peeking, Scooter!” Shane’s voice sounds off. How can it be in front of me when he’s beside me? Regardless, the sound of it pulls me to the present. I open my eyes and he’s holding his cell phone so I can see a video playing on the screen. The camera pans across the room and six heads are bowed down: Connor, Aiden, Ricky, Kyle, Scooter, and Auggie. Curiosity pulls my head above water; the sight of my boys keeps it there as my breathing slowly evens.

  “Okay. You ready?” It’s Shane’s voice on the phone, his hand recording, as an array of yeses sound. “We all know that Zander was told today his uncle has been approved to foster him.”

  “What?” Colton says in shock, hand stilling on my back, the same time the breath I just got back catches in my chest. My eyes, mesmerized by the sight of my boys again, sting with unwanted tears. Disbelief courses right alongside the panic.

  Spiral. Twist. Slide. Back down into the dark.

  “Just listen,” Shane urges, his voice giving me a focal point to cling to.

  The video continues. “Who is in favor and completely okay and know that it has nothing to do with playing favorites—”

  “Jesus. We got it, dude!” Aiden says. “We all know we’re Donavans. We don’t need a formal adoption process or the official name change to tell us that. It’s a given. Just take the vote, Shane.”

  Colton sucks in a breath beside me. My pulse starts to race again. A little at first. Then a lot. But this time it’s not from anxiety. The lack of panic and the presence of disbelieved hope pull me a little closer toward the surface.

  “Shut it, Aid!”

  “Always the boss,” Aiden says, eyes rolling, as Connor elbows him.

  “Who is in favor of Rylee and Colton filing a petition to adopt Zander?” Six arms rise in the air without a moment’s hesitation. Shane flips the camera lens onto him to show his hand in the air. “And it’s a landslide,” he says, angling it back to my crew where they’ve all raised their heads, smiles on their faces, and patience gone.

  I’m transfixed with the images as a few of them give a shout out to me until a scuffle ensues over hogging the spotlight and then the video stops. But when Shane goes to pull his hand holding the phone away, I reach out in reflex and grab it, my eyes lifting up to meet his.

  I don’t know what to say. All I know is how I feel. And how I feel is that I actually feel something when there’s been nothing in so long. A sudden rainstorm in an arid desert.

  My hand squeezes his wrist as I scramble to mouth the words backing up like a dam in my mind. Nothing comes out but I can’t let go of him. And I can’t look away.

  Colton runs his hand up and down the length of my spine in reassurance as Shane lowers to his knees in front of me and puts his free hand on top of mine, holding steadfast to his. Eyes laced with concern and swimming with love meet mine.

  “We know you’re not choosing Zander over us. You’re doing what you’ve always done. You’re trying to save him just like you have done for each one of us.” His voice breaks and tears well, despite him trying to hold it together. “We didn’t tell Zander about the vote, didn’t want to get his hopes up if you guys decide not to pursue it . . . but we also didn’t want you to throw the idea out because you thought it would upset us.”

  “I don’t even know what to say,” Colton says, his voice thick with emotion.

  “There’s nothing to say.” He shrugs, bringing back thoughts of the little boy I first met. “I’ll admit when you first told me about it, I was a little shocked. Surprised. But at the same time, it’s what you said after telling me you’d adopt Zander that I heard the loudest.”

  Colton looks back and forth between us and shakes his head as he tries to recall what Shane’s talking about.

  “You told me Ry nixed the idea because it would make the rest of us feel bad. That spoke louder to me than anything. She was willing to hurt him to spare our feelings. It didn’t sit right with me. Ry, you raised us to look out for one another, take care of each other. Be a family. Well, Zander’s our family. So I mentioned it to Aiden. Played it down. Pretended I’d had a dream about it happening to see what he’d say. He thought it was brilliant. Didn’t have a problem with it. We went from there.” His voice fades off, but I hear hope in his tone and see optimism in his eyes.

  “Shane.” It’s the sound of Colton’s stilted voice that causes the first tear to slide over.

  “I just wanted to try to make things right.”

  The curtain lifts. Huge body-wracking sobs take over my body as the curtain lifts to the highest it’s been since my mind fell into this depression. And I still can’t speak. All I can do is show them that the smile on my face is not forced anymore—a break in the black clouds. A ray of light flooding me with the knowledge there is still good in the world. That I’ve raised seven boys who came to me damaged and beyond hope—with all odds stacked against them—and have turned them into compassionate, loving individuals who have formed a family.

  My family. Their family.

  “Ry? Baby, look at me.” It’s Colton’s voice that pulls me out of this storm of emotion. I actually want to stay in it though, because it feels so damn good to feel something other than the weight of sadness. But I look at him anyway. I want him to see the glimpse of the real me peeking through because I know as good as this feels, as long as it has lasted, it will probably be gone soon. In my compromised psyche, I know you don’t snap out of postpartum depression so easily.

  But it gives me hope. Tells me I can do this. That the glimpse will turn into more. Baby steps as Colton says.

  “These are happy tears, right?” he asks as I glance over to Shane and then back to him. Both of their eyes hold a cautious optimism.

  “Yes.”

  I might not be broken after all.

  FUCKIN’ BECKETT.

  He knows just how to push my buttons. Get me where I need to be. Even if it takes a few fibs as he calls them. More like bald-faced lies.

  But who’s the fool? I fell for them. I’m right where he wants me. On the track. In the car and just hitting my stride on my thirtieth lap after some new adjustments.

  God, I needed this. Everything about it: the routine, the camaraderie with the crew, the vibration of the car all around me, the control and response when everything else has felt so chaotic.

  The freedom.

  I shift, coming into turn one. Let my car own the track since I’m alone on it, getting a feel if the last adjustment was right or wrong.

  “Wood?” No other words need to be said to know what he’s asking me.

  “Feels good. Ass end’s not sliding as I come outta the bank.” I take a sip of water from the tube. It’s piss-warm. Fuck.

  “Okay. Open her up then for a few laps once you hit the line. Push to pass. Let me see what the gauges say when we do that.”

  “Open her up? You get
some last night, Daniels? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say those words.” Hands grip the wheel, body braced for the force as I come out of turn four toward the start/finish line.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckles. That’s an affirmative on getting laid. “Let’s see what she can do.”

  I drop the hammer. Race the motherfucking wind. Let the vibration of the car and the fight of the wheel own my mind and body: escape from the worry about Rylee—the constant responsibility of Ace, the everything that feels like it has been on my shoulders—and just be.

  The car and me. Machine and man. Speed against skill. Chaos versus control.

  Each lap peels away the world around me a little bit more. Pulls me into the blur. Lets me become a part of the car, hear each rattle, feel every vibration, and listen to what she’s saying to me.

  If she’s going to be a whore or a wife for the next race: let me use her, abuse her until I get mine at the start/finish line, or if I need to praise her, stroke her with foreplay, and hope she gets off by the time the checkered flag is waved.

  “Gauges are looking good. How’s she feel?”

  “A good mix.” He knows I mean she’s a little bit of both—whore and wife—the perfect mix to win a race.

  “We need a little more whore for the next race. Push her harder. See if she sucks or swallows.”

  I laugh into the open mic as I head into turn three. Routine entry, down shift, gaze drops down to the gauges one last time before the track and car own them with the concentration the turn takes.

  The ass end slides high, fishtails at the topside of the curve. Rubber tires hit a rash of pellets. I hydroplane across them, slick tires over balls of rubber.

  FUCK!

  Split seconds of time. Increments of thoughts. Routine of movements.

  The nose end turn turns high. Arms tense fighting the wheel. A flash of concrete wall.

  Ace. An image of him flashes before my eyes. A slideshow of frames. His cry is in the whine of the engine.

  Releasing the wheel. Crossing my arms so I can hold onto the harness.

  Ryles. Soft smile. Big heart. Incredible strength. Just when she’s coming back to me.

  Shoulders shoving into the seat. The car spins. Nosecone hits the wall. Metal sparking as it shreds.

  “Wood!”

  Spinning. Hands grip seatbelts tight. Waiting for the second impact.

  Nothing.

  C’mon. C’mon. C’mon

  Spinning.

  Slipping down the track.

  Spinning.

  Grass flying as I hit the infield.

  Coming to a stop.

  Taking a breath.

  Hands stiff from holding tight to the seatbelts.

  “Goddammit, Colton! Answer me.”

  Sound comes back. Adrenaline takes over. My heart pounds. My mouth is dry.

  But I’m fine.

  “I’m good. Fine,” I rasp as my body starts to tremble from the aftereffects. “Fucked up the nosecone and front right side.”

  “You’re good?” His voice is shaky.

  “I’m good.” Well, I will be. After I have a stiff drink.

  “Fuck, Colton! I told you to open her up, not tear her up and slam her into the goddamn wall!” he yells through the mic as I unpin the wheel to get out.

  My chuckle fills the connection—the tinge of hysteria in it clear as fucking day.

  I’m grateful for his comment. For getting me back to the norm when a part of me is so lost in my own head over shit I never allow myself to think about.

  And yet sometimes when you’re forced to close your eyes, everything else becomes so much clearer.

  “Colton?”

  “Can I come in?” I look at my dad. There are so many things I want to say. No, need to say to him.

  My mind hasn’t stopped since I left the track. The wreck made my mortality front and fucking center like never before. I have a kid now. Responsibilities. People that matter to me when before the only person I cared about besides my parents, Quin, and Becks was me, myself, and I.

  I got out of the car needing to call Ry. Talk to her. Hear her voice. Get home so I could hold Ace. But know I can’t.

  It was just another day at the track. I spun out. A job hazard. I couldn’t call her because even though she’s making huge strides, she’s still not one hundred percent, and I didn’t want to do anything to trigger her to pull away.

  So I drove. Aimlessly. Ended up at the beach. Then drove some more. Checked in with Haddie to make sure Ry was good and ended up here. Fucking full circles.

  “Come in. Everything okay? Ry and Ace?” he asks as I follow him into the house I grew up in.

  “Yes. Yeah.” Shit. He’s worried. “Sorry. They’re fine. It’s all good.” We walk past the stairs I used to slide down on cardboard, and the liquor cabinet I used to sneak bottles from in high school. I focus on that shit because all of a sudden I’m antsy, nervous. Feel stupid for coming here but need to tell him nonetheless.

  “It’s good to see you out and about,” he says.

  “Haddie’s with Ry,” I explain when he doesn’t ask. “I had to get some time at the track.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Good. Fine. Hit the wall.”

  Fight or flight time, Colton. Say what you need to say.

  “Colton?”

  I snap from my thoughts. The shit that I’m here to say but have now lost the words for. “Sorry.” I sigh, lift my hat and run a hand through my hair.

  “I said hitting the wall doesn’t sound like it went well. Are you okay?” His grey eyes look at me in that way he has since I was a kid. Checking for ghosts he’s not going to find.

  “Yes. No.” I shake my head. “Fuck if I know.” I laugh and can hear the nerves in it as I watch him sit down and lean back on the couch, expression guarded, eyes an open fucking door that say, “Talk to me, son.”

  I shove up out of the seat I’ve just sat in and walk toward the mantle where it is littered with picture frames of Q and me as kids. A house that has been featured in every style magazine known to man, and my mom keeps our homemade frames sitting on the mantle like they fit right in with the Louis whatever chair I was never allowed to sit on. I’m restless, fidgety, and just need to get this the fuck over with so I can stop thinking about it and get home.

  “I had no right to ask you to go with me the other day.” That wasn’t what I was expecting to say but, fuck it, might as well go with it. He stares at me, father to son, body and eyes warring between asking for more and letting it come to me.

  “I’m not following you.”

  Of course you’re not going to make this easy on me, are you? Fuck. I sigh. Move. Pace. Hand through hair again.

  “When I asked you to drive me so I could see my . . . uh . . .” Fuck. I can’t say the word. Can’t use the same term for that piece of shit as I do for this man in front of me, my endgame superhero.

  “Dad. You can say it, Colton. I’m confident with my place in your life.”

  “I know but it was a slap in your face, and it’s been eating at me. I shouldn’t have asked you to go,” I say as I turn around and meet his eyes again. “Or I should have told you where we were going. Given you a choice.”

  “It’s never a slap in my face when you want to spend time with me, son. The fact you wanted me there with you tells me more than you’ll ever know.”

  I stare at him, jaw clenched, and head a mess. I don’t deserve him. Never have. But sure as shit, I’m not letting him go.

  “It was chickenshit of me.” It’s all I can say.

  “It’s only natural for you to wonder. What you need to ask yourself is, did you get what you wanted out of it?”

  “Yes. No. Fuckin’A straight I’m so angry but I don’t know why.” I pace again. Pissed I’m still bugged by it all.

  “Why? Because you wanted him to see you, pull you into a hug, and start a relationship?” he goads, knowing damn well that wasn’t what I wanted. “Have a get-to
-know-you session?”

  “No,” I shout, hand banging down on the table beside me. The sound echoes around the room while I rein in my temper. I don’t want to have emotion over the loser. None. So why do I feel so fucked up when I thought I had it all under wraps? “I didn’t want shit from him other than to see him so I could look at the fucking reflection of what I never want to be to Ace. You happy?”

  “Perfectly,” he says with a ghost of a smile that taunts me. I’ve punched guys for less. But I force myself to breathe. Unclench my fists. Redirect my anger. Try to at least.

  “Really? My fucked-up head makes you happy?” I grate out between gritted teeth.

  “Nope. But you’ve been through a lot of shit this month, Colton. Taken on a lot of responsibilities and haven’t really gotten to deal with any of this, so here I am. Scream and yell. That vase right next to you? Throw it. Watch it break against the wall. I’ll cover for you with your mom. Tell her I fell or something.” He pauses and lifts his eyebrows.

  “What? She’d kill you. That’s like some antique-ey thing we were never allowed to touch.”

  “Even better. Expensive shit sounds better when it breaks.”

  “You’re fucking crazy.” I laugh, not really sure what else to say because he looks dead serious. What is going on here?

  “Yeah, well, you have to be crazy to be a good parent.” His lips curl up, eyes flash with something, and I know I’m about to get schooled. Too bad I have no idea what the lesson covers. So I just stare at him and wait, knowing from experience that something else is coming. The difference is that as a kid, I’d let it go in one ear and out the other. This time, I’m fairly certain I won’t be so blasé.

  “Connect the dots here, Dad, because I’m lost.” White flag is waving. Help me out.

  “Being a parent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s made me question my sanity more times than you can imagine,” he says dryly, and I know many of those times were because of me. “And there are times that you have to bite your tongue so hard you’re not sure if it’s going to be in one or two pieces when you open your mouth. It’s exhausting and you’re constantly doubting yourself, wondering if you’re doing the right thing, saying the right thing, being the right thing.”