“He won’t listen to me,” I finally say. “Not anymore. And honestly, I don’t think any of it is my place.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Han. Dustin? Camp Verde? The track and your family? This will always be your place. This is your home. Every single one of us. I know we hurt you with the whole money thing, and if I could go back in time, I’d probably handle the situation differently. But it was never about hurting you, Hannah. My offer to Dustin . . . his acceptance of the cash. It wasn’t about hurting you. It was only about protecting you—”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off. He’s given me this same speech several times now, and I’ve come to forgive my parents and Dustin for that part of our past. I get it, even if I don’t agree with what they did. Dustin wouldn’t have been able to survive without monetary help. My parents were afraid of putting me within too many degrees of closeness to Colt. What I can’t come to terms with is how much closer to danger I am with Alex in the picture, and how nobody seems to see that. It isn’t just me anymore. The risk is bigger—devastatingly so.
“He’s working so hard, Han. Harder than I’ve ever seen him work.”
“Good. I’m sure he’ll find his way and it will all pay off.” I sound defensive and I don’t want to be, but I can’t get sucked in. This was the risk of coming home. It’s the reason I avoided it even though I missed this place terribly.
“Maybe,” my dad finally says. He guzzles the rest of my beer and tosses the bottles into the small recycle bin in the garage, nudging his cooler into the far corner.
I hang by the end of the boat while my dad closes the oversized garage. This talk was painful, but it was also an important step. We need many more of them to get back to where we were, and we may never make it the entire way. None of it matters anyhow if Dustin is going to keep going to Vegas to meet with Alex Offerman.
“Your mom is probably wondering what I’m up to. I’m going to head in. See you in a minute?”
“Sure.” I nod.
The winter breeze picks up and the front door closes behind me. The orange glow of the garage lights flickers on from the timer. It gets dark a lot earlier this time of year, and it seems the golden hour, which is my very favorite, is more like golden minutes.
My attention moves to the other end of my street, to the house I helped my best friend sneak in and out of so many times. Bailey’s engaged. She’s wearing a ring my brother put on her finger, and she and I haven’t celebrated once. This isn’t the life I imagined for myself at all, but it’s the one I’ve got. I wouldn’t trade Bristol for any of it. Doesn’t mean the circumstances don’t hurt.
I step out into the road to stroll toward Bailey’s house, hugging my midriff, unsure whether I’ll make it all the way to her before giving up. I’m silently pushing myself to keep going when the faint whistle of the wind running through the desert brush is disrupted by the gurgling sound of Dustin’s Supra. I shut my eyes and stop my feet, afraid to turn and see that girl sitting in his passenger seat. I commit to keep going when Dustin shouts my name, making it impossible to pretend I didn’t hear him. I turn slowly, my eyes zeroing in on the empty passenger seat first then on his tall frame and wide shoulders, all trimmed in his signature black.
“Wait up,” he hollers, jogging toward me. My hands fist at my sides and I press my nails into my skin.
“I thought you had brunch or whatever,” I say the minute he catches up to me. I sneer, not because I want to appear mean, but because I’m grossed out at my own jealousy coming through.
“Yeah,” he says, squinting his eyes as he pauses. “We ate, and then I told her I had a friend in town. She— She understood.” He drops his hands into his pockets and bows his head before popping his gaze up and lifting a guilty brow.
“She so did not understand,” I laugh out. I move toward Bailey’s house and Dustin trails along beside me.
“Yeah, you’re right. But we’re her biggest client and she can’t be that mad at me, so—”
“Dustin Bridges, flirting with his business partners. Tsk tsk.” I hate the idea of him flirting with anyone. I hate that she called him Dusty. I hate that I have to pretend it’s no big deal.
“It’s not like that. I swear. I mean, yeah, we’ve gone out a few times, but mostly for company. She’s a parts distributor, and—”
“That’s good. I can skip the details.” It’s easier to cut him off and admit I don’t want to hear about him dating than it is to get the visual of him with some casual hookup . . . for company.
“Gotcha. Okay,” he says through nervous laughter.
We both stare at the roadway while we walk, edging closer to Bailey’s house. I’m not sure which feels more awkward, this walk with Dustin or my impending knock on Bailey’s door. I think I’d rather have my appendix burst right now so an ambulance can haul me away.
“Where’s . . .”
He doesn’t say Jorge, and not because he doesn’t know his name. I don’t revel in how it makes him feel to see me with someone else. For a while, the thought of him being jealous appealed to the angry side of me. It quelled the hurt pieces. I’ve outgrown being petty, though. The pretense of my relationship with Jorge was never about hurting Dustin. It was about keeping Alex away.
“My mom put him to work. Bristol’s napping.” I lift my gaze to catch the pain wash over his eyes. He hides it, but poorly.
“Ah.” He nods. “She’s beautiful, by the way. She looks just like you.”
My throat burns hearing his words because the only thing I see when I look at her is him. That connection is even clearer now that I’m standing next to him. It’s the eyes—they both carry storms.
“Thank you,” I croak, keeping my eyes on the ground. One day, it will be impossible to convince others that she isn’t his. Maybe by then, I won’t have to lie anymore. But then, how do I tell him the truth? Will Alex ever not be in our lives? Will Dustin hate me? I can’t let myself go down this rabbit hole. It’s perilous and without answers. The only thing I can be certain of is the very real risk that exists now, and that is all I can control.
Our walk is interrupted by the Tingles’ SUV as Bailey’s dad drives by us and stops, rolling his window down.
“Hey, Hannah. Dustin.” No matter how hard he tries, I don’t think Mr. Tingle will ever fully like Dustin or me. Hell, I’m not sure he likes Tommy, but he’s stuck with my brother.
“Hi. I was just coming to see Bailey.”
“Oh, she’s not home. She’s out with her mom looking at wedding dresses or something. Women—they move on that stuff fast, don’t they?”
I smile and feign a laugh at his joke, but my chest hurts that Bailey is out looking at wedding dresses without me. I guess I haven’t been around for any of her and Tommy’s relationship, so I don’t have much right to demand to be included in the festivities. If I’m not in her wedding, though, it will crush me to the core.
“That they do, sir. Well, let her know we stopped by,” Dustin says, I think sensing I was struggling with a response.
“Will do,” Mr. Tingle says, rolling up his window and driving off.
I shrug at Dustin and point my thumb over my shoulder, signaling we should walk back, but he points the other way.
“Finish our walk?” He gives me a crooked smile and tilts his head, and for a moment, I’m drunk with temptation. It’s a harmless walk, and we’re being civil.
I miss him. I miss us.
That’s why I can’t.
“I should get back.” His gaze holds on to mine, and the disappointment swallows me whole.
“Yeah.” Those warm lips I miss form a tight smile and I hold my breath and stare at him for a few more seconds. I want to ask about Alex, to beg him to get away from that man, but there really isn’t an easy way out of our predicament. Dustin doesn’t even know all the moving parts. The only thing that could end this and make us right and whole is if Alex Offerman dies. I’m convinced of that. And I don’t dare put that idea in Dustin’s head.
&nb
sp; The walk back takes half the time, the air between us crackling with all the unspoken words. He’s angry. I can tell by the way his jaw ticks and his stride has lengthened. I’m angry too. Only, I don’t even know who I’m angry at anymore. I think maybe everyone and everything but Bristol.
We reach the house and I stop in front of the Supra, knowing Dustin won’t stay. My brother isn’t here; he’s at their apartment or at the track. Dustin won’t want to hang out in the kitchen with me and Jorge, and it will kill me to watch him with his daughter. But I can’t let him go with nothing. It can’t be like this. It just . . . can’t.
“You should come for dinner. My mom’s making way too much food. And she knows you aren’t in Vegas.”
He breathes in deeply, seeming to consider my offer, and that hopeful smile plays at his lips again, barely. It’s a dangerous invite, but it’s also easy to explain his presence away. It’s Thanksgiving. I doubt Dustin would ever talk about me to Alex. And if any of Alex’s people see us together in the same house, they will see two people being pleasant to one another for holiday’s sake. I think he’s about to agree when the door opens behind me and my heart begins to crumble.
“There she is,” Jorge says a second before Bristol’s tiny hand works its way into mine. I look down and lift her up, situating her on my hip. Her mouth is ringed by chocolate, no doubt that my mom fed her and Jorge allowed to happen. I lift the collar of my shirt and move to wipe it from her lips just as the sound of a car door shutting draws my eyes back to the driveway. The Supra fires to life and Dustin flips up the visor, allowing our eyes to meet for one last silent conversation. It’s full of regrets and bitterness and desperate apologies. And maybe, it’s also full of goodbye.
6
“You’re sure you don’t want to partake in my mom’s epic feast?” Tommy turns his back to me briefly to fish out the six-pack of Heineken, his contribution for the day. I decided on my way home from their house yesterday that it’s probably best I don’t interrupt the Judges’ family time.
“Yeah, I want to visit Kyle and Myra later, in the Valley. It’s their first Thanksgiving since her divorce, and Kyle’s home from college.”
“I can’t believe that punk is a freshman.” Tommy sets the beer on the counter and smiles, showing his fondness for Kyle. They spent the entire summer under the hood, Kyle getting a crash course in all things Toyota and Chevy from Tommy and Douglas.
I’ve become close with Kyle, and his mom, too. After Hannah left, I sort of threw my emotional energy into making sure Kyle was safe. It took me a while to convince Myra she would be able to handle life on her own, away from her husband, and two years beyond that to support her through finalizing her divorce.
Her asshole ex really put her through the wringer, actually fighting for sole custody despite the fact his teenaged son flat-out told him he didn’t want any part of him. Thanks to the broken-ass system, his parenting rights were way too generous throughout the nightmare. Now that Kyle’s in college and able to make his own decisions, I doubt he’ll spend much time on the big plot of land his dad owns in town.
When he interned with us over the summer, he stayed at our place. He said it was basically like living in a frat house, which I can see. Tommy is a slob and I’m a minimalist from years of having to live among junk. Kyle got his first taste of life without rules and a parent looking over his shoulder. I reminded him that those milestones also mean you don’t have a parent looking out for you. He called me overprotective, but I think one day, he’ll get it.
“All right, well, I’ll probably spend the night there on the couch. You know how my mom likes to throw in game night and Dad wants to get started on Christmas decorations. Bailey’s staying for that part. Maybe, if you aren’t too busy—”
“I’ll try,” I say, knowing I won’t. At least if I show up for the food part I can distract myself with eating. If I’m there for holiday music and cookies and untangling light strands, I’ll have idle mental time to focus on Jorge and Hannah. Idle time is bad.
“All right, then. If you do come, bring your own beer. I’m not saving any for your wishy-washy ass.” Tommy laughs over his shoulder as he strides out of our place, and I wait for the door to close behind him before flopping on the sofa and thinking about how pathetic my existence is.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the text I got three days ago from the private investigator I hired to track down my real mom, Alysha Solerno. Her last name is Peterson now, though she isn’t currently married. Divorced, twice. Single for the last six years, and living in a small apartment in Coolidge, about a hundred and fifty miles away. She works at a Mexican restaurant in the older part of town, and I keep trying to remember if I’ve ever been there. If I’ve seen her. If I’d know who she is by sight.
The guy sent me her address and phone number, and I have no fucking idea what to do with it. I’m recognized now, but only by some. The racing world knows my face, and people who have known me from years ago, they recognize me, too. They’ve seen my name in the news or followed the kid from their town who went on to do something bigger with his life. I suppose Alysha falls into that category, though she hasn’t seen me since I pissed in diapers and cried most of the time. Even then, she didn’t spend much time with me. Other than DNA, our connection is nonexistent.
It’s strange to finally hold something I’ve wanted for so long. It was easier when it was only some fantasy—me walking up to my real mom’s place of business or home and introducing myself. It goes many ways in my imagination. Sometimes, she cries the moment she sees me and pulls me in for a hug, rocking me as though I’m still that infant she left behind. Other times, she pretends she has no idea who I am and denies the story I tell her. And yet others, she’s angry, mad that I found her.
Whatever way this goes, if I do anything at all with this information, it’s a bad idea to set things in motion on Thanksgiving. From what the investigator could tell, she’s never had any other kids. But with my luck, there’s one out there—one she’s stayed close with and is spending precious time with today.
Some of us are meant to be alone on days like this. Even when I was a kid and the Judges had me to their house for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I felt like some novelty, the way people hire balloon artists for birthday parties. I was the rescue animal destined to go back to the shelter the next day. All the fame and money in the world won’t be able to fix that feeling I carry deep inside—the sense of not belonging anywhere or to anyone.
I used to fill that void with winning. The thrill of being the best, of coming in first, was a temporary reprieve from the constant sense that I was a failure everywhere else. And now, I can’t even fucking win. I’m not allowed.
I spend the next hour moping around our empty apartment. Our place is nice, part of a new resort development built into the creek side with floor-to-ceiling windows and a loft bedroom upstairs. The second bedroom, Tommy’s, is more private and on the first floor. Since he has an actual life, it makes sense for him to have the privacy. Anyone I hook up with either doesn’t stay long or we go to their place so I can leave to wallow in shame when I’ve sobered up. I don’t even like the feeling of that anymore, though; hence ditching my date with Chelsea.
I’ve riffled through our empty pantry a dozen times, and my plans for watching all the Marvel movies back-to-back-to-back doesn’t seem to be getting underway. I pull my phone out again to stare at the blurry photo from the PI and notice I have a text message from an unknown number. I’m ready to delete without even looking but something deep inside nags me to check it. I’m glad I do.
You should come. Everyone wants you here. I want you here. – Hannah
I blink a few times and read the text over again. My mind tries to insert different words—nobody wants you here. That’s not what it says though. And for Hannah to reach out, from a phone number she’s kept guarded, can’t mean her words are empty and simply for show.
Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I run upstairs
and slip on my black fitted shirt and my clean pair of jeans. I spray a dab of cologne on my neck and run wet hands through my hair before grabbing my keys and wallet and Rolex on my way out the door. It takes about twenty minutes to get to the Judges’ from where Tommy and I live, and today, with zero traffic and half the lights on flashing yellow, I’m there in fifteen.
Everything was fast and easy up to this point, but now, I’m skidding. I have to get out of the car. All of those fears, those feelings, come roaring back. I can’t deny that if Hannah weren’t here, going inside wouldn’t be a problem. She’s the reason I’m balking. She’s the reason I don’t feel welcome. Yet, she’s the reason I showed up . . . because she asked.
How can I hate someone and love them at the same time?
The flash of movement to my left catches my eye and I’m relieved to find Tom unpacking bins of decorations from the high shelves in the garage. I’ve come to learn there are a lot of reasons that man spends so much time on the lake and in this oil-stained space. He likes to avoid confrontation and emotions, and I’m interested in doing that right now.
“You need a hand?” I ask as I climb out of the car.
He grunts as he drops one of the bins on top of another, holding his back as he straightens to stand up straight.
“Here, let me move those.”
He steps back and waves me into his place. I chuckle, teasing him about getting old, but he reminds me he can still kick my ass. I’d doubt him, but he’s scrappy. I think he’ll always intimidate me.
“You know, you really should have a garage sale sometime,” I say, pulling down the last of way too many bins of decorations.
“Oh, fuck off.”
We both laugh out as Tom takes a seat on the bumper of his truck and I bend down and cup my knees, wondering if the last bin was filled with cement and bricks. There are already dozens of untangled strands of lights lined up in the driveway. It’s obvious Tom’s been planning this decorating thing for a while, probably for Bristol’s sake. I can’t remember the last time I saw lights on the Judge house. It’s been years, for sure.
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 5
