I haven’t shared the news with the guys yet. It’s an awkward announcement to make, and an even stranger talk to have with Bristol. I spent the early morning hours while Hannah slept Googling every fact I could find about a two-year-old’s mind, and I basically still know nothing. It’s clear she understands that Hannah is her mother, that she’s her caretaker and protector. The way she suddenly curls up in Hannah’s grasp is evidence of how safe she feels. I’m not sure how I foster that with me. It’s clear she likes me. I’m the funny man who makes her giggle. I got her an extra candy cane from Santa, so that’s a score. But she’ll forget those details almost as soon as they happen. The article on short-term memory is the only one that really stuck in my mind, I guess.
How to you teach a child that you’re their father, though? How do they simply know?
I’m deep in thought when the house clears out, and I almost miss the guys before they pack up the van to head to the track and ready the truck. I make it outside in time to get my lucky pat on the back from Virgil—three pats and never any more, superstitious motherfucker—and then I stand back as my mighty team pulls away.
“Your Uncle Jeff called,” Tom says, turning my attention to him. “He’ll be at the race. Wanted you to know.”
I nod, my mind whizzing around dozens of facts that don’t fit together in my puzzle. My uncle, who isn’t even blood, stood up for me the way his sister never could. And the kind-hearted man who spends every waking moment of his life trying to make the world better is giving up an entire day to come watch me lose a race. What a joke.
“Thanks,” I say, my noticeable pause pulling at Tom’s brow.
“He’s proud of you no matter what, Dustin. You know that, right?”
I nod and accept his words as fact. I know it in my gut. I just don’t feel I deserve it.
Hannah, Bailey, and her mom are all inside, giving Tom and me this rare moment alone. We haven’t talked since Bailey’s dad basically broke the news about my real mom. I know Tom wanted to tell me, so I don’t hold any resentment toward him for that, but it’s hard not to fall into the trap of what ifs.
It’s clear by the thick silence between us that the topic is on both of our minds. Neither of us are the type to broach hard subjects. We’re much better at putting on a face and muddling through. I’m learning that the long-term impact of that isn’t good for the soul, though. It goes against my new promise to myself too. It falls into the festering wound category, and nothing good has ever been born from that.
“You know I was afraid to drive that first kart you bought for Tommy and me?” I twist my mouth and look sideways at the man who’s been my father figure.
“No kidding?” He rears back with a short laugh. “Didn’t show one bit. You took those turns like a boss on the practice track. Tommy took out, what . . . three bales of hay?”
“Four,” I respond.
We both laugh.
“It was clear from the get-go which of you belonged behind the wheel.” He nods, his expression seeming to drift into the past.
“Yeah, and I’m shit under the hood. Just ask your son. He gets so pissed when I mess with things.”
“He gets pissed at you? You should see what he does to me when I tinker with my own damn truck.”
It’s true. Tommy goes in when his dad isn’t looking and fixes his timing belts.
Giggles ring out from the house behind us and we both turn to look over our shoulders.
“Sounds like a good time in there,” he says.
I turn enough to meet his gaze and memorize the faint sound of my daughter’s laugh, locking it away for later, when I need something to push me harder in life. Those are the things I collect now.
“You remember what you said to me? Before I strapped that helmet on?”
Tom shakes his head, lips taut and brow pulled in with curiosity. I’ve come back to the words he told me many times lately. They’ve been a guide through some of this darkness.
“You told me the only limits in life are the ones we give ourselves. You said just because I was too short to reach the pedal didn’t mean I would always be so small. And when they tell me the kart is only meant to go thirty, it means I can go twice as fast if I really want to. Limits, you said, are self-fulfilling.”
His mouth falls into a fatherly smile, gentle and reassuring. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen it on his lips, under the thick mustache now showing a lot more gray above his lip.
“You make me sound like a damn smart fella.”
“You are,” I respond.
He breathes out a laugh and glances down. He’s uncomfortable with the attention. I get that from him. We might not be blood, but he’s the one who really raised me. I learned a lot from this man. And I’m who I am because of him. If I’m enough, it’s because he made sure I was.
“Alysha wasn’t ready. Not to be a mother.”
He nods slowly but doesn’t look up. The dimples from his smile disappear, but he isn’t frowning.
“You made a decision with the facts on hand. I was cold, so you lit a fire.”
He shakes once, a tiny laugh breaking from his chest that masks the hurt and anguish he’s suffered for too long. Tom doesn’t meet my gaze, but he opens his arms wide and steps into me, bringing me into the kind of hug he used to give me as a kid when I won a race, the kind he gave to Tommy and Hannah. I’m already every bit his son. Marriage will be a formality, a promise to his daughter.
His heavy hand falls on my back and his chin digs into my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you, kid. So fucking proud.”
I smile over his shoulder, my eyes soaking in the blue Arizona sky. Everything feels certain right now. It’s clear as day. Alex is a limitation, and his power exists because I give it to him. I’m not coming in eighth next weekend. I’m not even coming in second. I’m going to win. I’m going to set a record so mind-blowing they’ll have to check my engine and inspect Tommy’s hands for fairy dust. I’m going to win because Alex Offerman doesn’t get to tell me what to do. And when the press comes to ask me how I feel, I’m going to out him to the world. Then who’s going to feel the weight of limits on their shoulders?
19
It was a perfect day. Every moment of it, simply perfect.
We didn’t leave the house but for the picnic we had outside. I think Dustin was more insistent on setting up the blanket with Bristol’s alligator stuffy and the big round smiley face pillow Jorge won for her at the Omaha State Fair a few months ago.
I spoke to Jorge today. I needed to, not only for closure but to apologize. Even though I always told him how life with me would have to be, it’s impossible to tell someone not to hope for something different—for something more. Jorge . . . hoped.
Our talk was good, and while I could hear the pain in his voice, he is genuinely happy that I am trying for the life I really want. For a man who doesn’t believe in fighting, he’s pretty adamant about others not being pushovers. I don’t have much that’s my own in Nebraska, and most of the things I purchased with him I insisted he keep. Whatever comes of life here, I want it to be fresh, with new things, all the way down to my coffee mug and pot.
He promised to ship my art, though most of my collection is committed to the institute’s gallery for another six months. He also promised to make a call to his colleague in Sedona. It’s not a prestigious school, and pretty small compared to Omaha, but I’d be teaching. I’d have my own space to work and create. That’s all I ever hoped for when I was young and putting pencil to paper.
I let Bristol talk with him too and she told him stories, including the one about Dustin telling her to ask Santa to make mommy and Dustin kiss. Her broken sentence structure was no use in masking that one, and I know it hurt Jorge to hear.
With Bristol finally asleep, worn out from our epic day, Dustin and I join Bailey and Tommy in the living room for some action movie the boys seem to care about a whole lot more than we do. Tommy pulls it up in the queue as Dustin climbs over the b
ack of the sofa, slipping into the space between the arm and me so he can pull me against him and hold me close. Bailey eyes me from across the room and I mouth “what?”
“You know what,” she says, pointing and circling her finger around us, drawing an air heart.
I roll my eyes, but nuzzle in closer.
“You know what sounds better than watching a movie?” I have a feeling they’ll agree with my idea.
“Hmm?” Dustin hums above my head.
“Checking out the Straights.”
Tommy doesn’t bother turning his head, waving me off and pressing on with the movie.
“Nice sentiment, but they shut that shit down.”
“No they didn’t,” Dustin pipes in.
I shift my head to look up at him, surprised by the news as much as my brother and Bailey. I was being sentimental, and thought maybe we could basically pick some random desert road and take turns driving fast.
“Tell me. Tell me right now, you hold out,” Tommy says, pausing the screen and tossing the remote to the coffee table. Suddenly, my brother is fifteen and begging for Dustin to share his porn.
“Ava and Matty moved it out to county land. They’ve been running ’em on weekends about twenty-five miles out.”
“Shut the fuck up.” My brother sits up straight. He’s a Labrador waiting for Dustin to toss his ball, and it’s hilarious.
Dustin wriggles his body but keeps me held to his side, his arm slung around my neck and shoulder, his fingers tickling my arm. Forget about Tommy being a teenager. Now I am, and a swooning one who’s putty in Dustin Bridges’ hands.
“I thought you knew,” Dustin laughs out.
“No!” Tommy whines.
“I did.” Bailey’s quiet admission silences the three of us and we all stare at her as she holds her knees to her chest, peeking over them. She shrugs as my brother stands and holds outstretched palms in her direction.
“I thought everyone did!” Bailey pleads.
“No. Not everyone.” My brother is one breath away from uttering “harrumph.” Dustin and I can no longer contain our laughter. I roll to my side and he grabs his belly while we cackle at Tommy’s expense.
“You guys suck. Come on,” he says, marching between the recliner and the sofa to grab his jacket from the hook by the door.
We all quiet a little and exchange a few quick glances, but it’s pretty clear we all are in for this.
“Hell, yeah,” Dustin says, leaping over the couch and racing my brother for the Supra keys in the middle of the kitchen table. Dustin wins, but he tosses them to my brother as soon as we all get out the door.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I feel bad holding out on you and all,” Dustin answers.
Tommy grimaces, faking like he’s still mad, but his feet are practically hopping on the pavement. He can’t wait for this. He’s also going to get his ass kicked tonight. And I plan on recording every loving second.
* * *
I’ll be damned. Dustin was right. He and I follow Bailey and Tommy as they take the Supra about twenty-five miles east on Old Chapel Road. This stretch isn’t as smooth as the Straights were, but it’s empty of traffic, and that’s enough.
“How’d Ava find this place?” I ask Dustin.
“I guess this area was a mining town about a hundred years ago. O’er in them thar hills,” he jokes, pointing to the small peaks off in the distance. “This road was the main drag and led to, wait for it, the old chapel.”
I chuckle.
“Ava said her dad remembers when the mining crews drove down her before things closed up. It’s the first place that popped into her head when the council put those roundabouts in.”
The crowd isn’t as big as it was when we were in high school, but the vibe is still very much present. Music thumps from a lowrider that glows purple neon onto the ground. Tommy pulls the Supra in next to it and Dustin slips my car into the last space on that side of the road. As predicted, he’s recognized almost immediately—after a few people get excited at seeing the Supra only to be let down when my brother exits the car.
“No love for the mechanic, I swear,” he jokes.
We spend the first twenty minutes roaming the strip, breathing in the familiar scent of burnt oil and rubber on road. If I close my eyes, the street is the same.
“Baby Queen!” Ava’s voice calls out from a crowd and I scan faces until her outstretched arms poke through and she moves toward me. She started calling me that my senior year, when I spent nearly every Friday night behind the wheel of Dustin’s car. I got good, but none of us will ever be as good at the man standing behind me.
Ava pulls me into a hug, stuffing my face in her bosom. She’s dressed like a pinup, her hair piled on top of her head with a red and white bandana, her jeans tighter than I could dream of shoving my ass into, heels higher than ever. The woman knows her brand. She also knows how to work off baby weight like nobody’s business. I’m going to need tips.
“I hear you’re a mama now. Look at you, playing hooky.” She pulls away from our embrace and her eyes find Dustin behind me. Her smile falters just a hair, shifting into a suspicious curve as she points her long nails toward him then back to me.
“Oh, wait a minute. Are you two—?”
“Dustin’s the father,” I say, deciding to cut to the chase. I turn to find him wearing a surprised expression, clearly not at the news but that I let the facts spill out so easily. Perhaps I should be more guarded, but Ava is family.
“Shut up!” She shoves me with both hands and I back into Dustin’s embrace. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek, resting his chin in the crook of my neck and looking at one of our oldest friends.
“How ya doin’, Ava?”
She narrows her gaze and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth before tapping her red nail on his nose.
“You dog,” she says.
“I’ve been called worse,” he replies.
“So who’s racing tonight? Baby Queen? Want me to set you up?”
“Actually, my brother finally wants to try his hand behind the wheel.” Tommy steps into view and puffs up his chest, though I know a part of him is scared shitless. He’s never pushed a car past one-twenty without freaking out. Even in the passenger seat, he’s a risk-averse mess.
“Oh, honey. You sure?”
Tommy groans and stomps back to the Supra, mumbling something about everyone being jerks.
“Give him someone easy,” Dustin says in a loud whisper. Ava winks and pulls the notebook from her back pocket.
The three of us go back to the car to wait with Tommy for his race to be called, and I hold on to Dustin’s arm while people take turns coming up to gush and shake his hand. Most are people we recognize, drivers we’ve known for years. But when a man none of us recognize walks up, Dustin slides me from his arm and pushes me behind him defensively. My heart races, and a million terrible thoughts battle in my head for significance. This was careless, coming out here. But it’s our town. It seemed safe.
“I’m with Motor World. Hawkins, Dale Hawkins,” the man says, handing a card to Dustin from a small metal case he pulls from his pocket.
I ease up and Dustin’s shoulders relax.
“Motor World, huh? What are you doing out here?”
Dale looks like a fifty-year-old skater, feet shoved into well-worn Vans, corduroy pants and a Santa Cruz sweatshirt I’m pretty sure actually came from Santa Cruz. I may be looking at the Dustin of the future.
“I’m looking for you, actually. I mean, not literally, but I’m researching a piece about you for the winter issue. Had to check out your old stomping ground and I planned on reaching out to take a tour of the track next week. I figured Thanksgiving and all, you’d be pretty busy.”
Dustin eyes his card then glances up to match the title to what he sees in front of him and the story Dale told. It feels legit, but he’s still guarded, so I remain behind him in the background with Bailey as my brother gets introduced.<
br />
The three of them talk about cars and the old Straights for a while, and Bailey and I tune them out. Then one of the man’s questions brings me roaring back to their conversation.
“It’s been awhile since the big win in Phoenix. There was a lot of buzz, and you were supposed to be the next coming of the circuit. Didn’t quite come to fruition—”
“Yet,” Dustin interjects.
Dale’s mouth hangs open and shifts into an intrigued smile.
“I see,” he finally says.
“I had some growing pains. Sure. But I’ve never been more secure in my environment, Dale. I think you’re about to see a whole new Dustin Bridges out there next weekend. In fact, you wanna ride tonight? It’s only a Supra, but—”
“Hell yeah, I do,” Dale says, moving to the passenger side.
Tommy turns to face Dustin, his mouth a hard line that reeks of all kinds of fuck yous, but he hands Dustin the keys. The three of us step back as Dustin works the car out onto the road. I wave down Ava and when our eyes meet, point to the car so she sees Tommy is no longer behind the wheel. She gives me a thumbs up, and when I see Dustin’s favorite Dodge rumble out of the lineup, I climb on top of my car so I have a good view. Jimmy’s always been a formidable foe, and he’ll make this a good experience for Dale. He’ll help make the story. But in about seven minutes, he’s going to be crawling back to his parking spot as the loser. A nice guy, but still . . . a loser.
While Dustin and Jimmy square up, I send Bailey to cut through the crowd and let Ava know about Dustin’s special guest. She may as well put on a bit of a show too. The guy will also need to know what he can and can’t put in his story. Names have to be changed, and locations are definitely vague. This place is a lot like Fight Club, and it has survived by those rules.
Burn: The Fuel Series Book 3 Page 16
