All Wheel Drive

by Z. A. Maxfield

So.

  Cecil was calling his mother’s friend Rachel “Dr. Ortiz” now. Cecil was sure being cagey about his relationship with her. Like Diego didn’t know they had a thing.

  She’d left a message, although he’d never gotten back to her.

  Apparently she wasn’t afraid to go up the chain of command.

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “She wants you to start on the documentary you promised to make.” Cecil chided gently. Documentary.

  More like a looping bio to play in the background when they show Mom’s work.

  “I’ll have to go through all her things. I haven’t even started on the script for the video.”

  “What about sending the materials for the book? Rachel’s waiting. If you don’t want Rachel to edit your mother’s memoirs—”

  “It’s not that easy.” Diego wished it was that easy. Why did people keep forgetting this was his mother they were talking about.

  “It is . . . It can be. Your mother’s papers—”

  “Belong to me,” Diego reminded him. “The papers, the photographs. The digital recordings. It all belongs to me.”

  “Diego.”

  Diego could almost see his stepdad. Taking off his glasses. Rubbing the bridge of his nose. Tired eyes, warm, long-suffering expression on his face, Cecil never lost the hint of a smile, even when life handed him nothing but trouble. He was one of the few truly decent people Diego had ever met.

  One of the best men he knew.

  “I’ll be disappointed if you choose to keep her legacy to yourself, especially now that—”

  “I’m not selfish,” snapped Diego, artlessly.

  “I never said you were. I said I’d be disappointed if you can’t share her with all the other people who might also come to love her if they can get to know her.”

  No fair. No fair. “I’ll think about it.”

  “We’re not trying to take anything away from you, son. All we want is for you to think about what Gabbi would have wanted.”

  “Look, I was just about to put some cookies in the oven so—” Diego transferred himself to his chair to make his lie into a belated reality.

  “Okay, sorry I caught you in the middle.”

  “No. It’s no problem, I—”

  “I’ll catch you later this week.”

  “Sure.” Great. Now shit was going to get awkward between them, and he couldn’t bear that. “I’ll think about what you said, Cecil, honest. The movers put mom’s things up in the garage apartment, so I can’t even get to them.”

  “I can fly up there anytime, son. I can help bring things down—”

  “Nah, I got a guy who wants to rent the room, so I told him to put Mom’s things in the garage. I can leave the car out while I go through it all.”

  “That’d be terrific, Diego.” Please God, don’t let Cecil get emotional. “Thank you.”

  “But I’ll get to it when I can get to it, okay? No promises, no deadlines.”

  “Terrific, terrific. That means so much to us, I can’t tell you.” His stepfather’s optimism was contagious as hell. Unfortunately, Diego’d been inoculated against it by his mother’s pragmatism before Cecil came along. “That’s great. Thank you. I’ll let Rachel know you’re working on it.”

  “Sure.” Diego hated himself for the twinge of anger that rippled through him when his stepfather said Rachel’s given name. His jealousy was ridiculous.

  He was ridiculous.

  His mother had been dead for two years. Plus, he was pretty sure Cecil, Rachel, and his mother had all been lovers—sometimes as a threesome, and sometimes like Noah’s two-by-twos in varying combinations.

  Diego had plausible deniability.

  He’d never asked.

  He’d never looked closely at room assignments in hotels.

  For reasons of his own, he’d left them to it, and everyone had breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  “Say hello for me. Tell Rachel I’ll call her.”

  “Thanks, Diego.” Perhaps he’d conveyed more than he thought, because Cecil went on. “You’re a good man.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  Cecil seemed satisfied with that. “Save a cookie for me.”

  “Bwahaha, they’re all mine.” After disconnecting the call, he made his way to the kitchen.

  Thanks to somebody’s kid’s fundraiser, he had a freezer full of premeasured cookie dough pucks, boxed by the dozen and labeled neatly. He pulled out a few of each—oatmeal, chocolate chip, and white chocolate macadamia nut—laid them out on a foil-wrapped cookie sheet, and preheated the oven.

  While he waited, he got another beer.

  His mother watched him from the refrigerator—or rather, he and his mother stared out at him from an old photograph, as if his past was judging his present.

  He’d been about three when his mom’d set the camera down on the hood of a car, hauled him up, and pointed so he’d know where to look.

  She was pretty, with dark hair over one shoulder in a long braid, but she’d always played down her looks. She’d worn men’s work pants and a loose chambray shirt. Now he understood that—hiding her youthful body was safer because they’d been without meaningful protection.

  In another photo, he was a big-eyed, raw-boned kid, happily sitting in a truck bed with his arm around a one-eyed dog. He didn’t remember much about the dog. He’d never had a pet of his own until his mother married Cecil.

  Those early years had been extra tough. He’d been passed from hand to hand, sometimes quite literally, while his mother worked, scraped by, and studied to get her degree. Art was her escape. The friends she made in her guerrilla art days were lifelong. They were all waiting for him to get off the pot. To assemble her memoirs, to show her work in galleries again. Even to make a documentary of her life, because if he didn’t do it, who would?

  Who could do it right, besides him?

  He studied the pictures . . .

  Sometimes they’d had a roof over their heads, sometimes a tent. She’d been a single mother, a pretty girl with no privilege and little protection, and she’d kept her head down. Life had been hardscrabble as hell. She’d had more patience than anyone he knew. More drive. More resilience. More balls.

  They’d moved frequently, his mom taking whatever work she could find. They’d trusted no one person with all their secrets at once, like the characters in the wizard books he’d loved.

  If later she’d made the most of her pluck and her luck, marrying a well-heeled lawyer, giving dinner parties, cajoling her friends into supporting her charities and terrifying cater-waiters, she’d earned the right.

  Along the way, he’d lost the mother who’d been such a child when he was born that they’d grown up together. He’d lost his fiercest ally. His protector. His best friend.

  No. That wasn’t fair.

  She’d widened the circle, brought others in. And she’d never left it.

  Not really.

  Over time, he and his mother had lost the intimacy they’d shared as outsiders living on the fringes of society, always afraid people would take advantage.

  Now, he’d lost his ability to see himself apart from his beginnings. He was always an outsider.

  He was doubly, triply so, since his accident.

  The first dozen cookies inspired him to bake a second for the people from his photography club. That in turn inspired him to bake a batch for the guy upstairs—a sort of apology for being terse. Especially since it looked like he wouldn’t have to use force to get the dude to leave.

  Once the cookies were finished, he set up the coffee maker and headed for bed.

  Maybe it was thinking about his mom that started the what-if game, because despite his best intentions, his brain took off on its old favorite pastime.

  While his mother lived, the game had been about possibilities. What if I were fearless. What would I do? What if I were the smartest person in the world? What would I know?

  They’d played when they had nothing.
<
br />   Or maybe they’d played because they had nothing.

  The only rule was that the hypothetical had to be intangible, which made it more fun anyway. No point in asking what he’d do with a million bucks. Everyone knows what they’d do with a million bucks.

  But if Diego ever had to pick between the Enterprise and the Millennium Falcon, he knew exactly why he’d pick the Falcon, despite the fact that there’s no question the Enterprise was a better ship.

  Sometimes you went with your gut.

  Now, as he engaged in the what-if game in the privacy of his room, the subject of his scrutiny was his unasked-for tenant.

  Healey was good-looking and—by all accounts—brilliant. Healey was vulnerable. Until he got back on his feet, he was way off-limits, despite the loneliness Diego read in his eyes and the absolutely magnificent ass he’d checked out while Healey walked away.

  Healey had to be off-limits.

  But man . . . the what-if game.

  What if I’d met Healey Holly in some other circumstances? What if he was just some guy who worked on the set?

  What if he came on to me?

  What if, what if, what if . . .

  Healey rang the doorbell. The endless clang of Westminster Chimes was loud enough to be heard through the open kitchen window.

  A light breeze cooled the sweat on his upper lip.

  Chronic pain management was new to him. He didn’t always get the drug combinations exactly right. Therefore, when Clara Underhill opened the door, he was wiping his damp brow with an embarrassed wince.

  “You are gray.” His mentor’s usual expression—regal indifference—faltered. For a brief second, he saw the fear, the wounded dignity, the considerable anger she couldn’t hide. She ushered him inside.

  At four feet eleven and three-fifths inches, Clara’s diminutive, apple doll exterior hid an infinite ego, a keen mind, and a really, really sick sense of humor.

  To preserve the illusion of normalcy, he spoke first. He waved his cast hand at her. “No masturbation jokes?”

  “You awful boy.” She led him to the living room, where she’d laid out the fixings for coffee and tea. “It’s wonderful to see you, even if you’re being a juvenile ass. How are you, really?”

  “I’m fine.” He made sure his smile matched his words, but the carnage was there for anyone to see.

  “Sit,” she said. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  Ms. Underhill’s home was a study in natural fibers and shades of beige. She had a tabletop fountain that burbled merrily, turning a waterwheel, crystals, and a cheerful statue of the Buddha, who grinned from a place of honor amidst lush plants in a slanted grid of midafternoon sunlight.

  For a mathematician, she had a surprising number of objects he’d consider superstitious. But Clara’s place was still as warm and welcoming as he remembered it. The simplicity of visiting relaxed him.

  He let his guard drop.

  Before he knew what was happening, he’d started crying, tears only, dripping down his cheeks in two tracks to his shirt. His jeans.

  She put her arms around him, and it only made things worse. He turned his face away like a dog who isn’t interested in playing, one who hopes if he ignores you, you’ll just move along.

  “Oh.” Her dismay was palpable, but he could do nothing to save the situation. “Oh, honey.”

  Eventually she let go, but pulled up a hard-backed chair to stay quietly by his side. Where her hug was overwhelming, her presence meant a lot to him. Eventually, he let her take his hand good hand between hers.

  Like Goldilocks, he discovered that careful contact was exactly right.

  “Th-thanks.” His voice was too hoarse to talk after he’d cried himself out. “Didn’t expect that to happen.”

  She let go of him to pour coffee, adding sugar and cream. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Just the thought made him flinch.

  Would she pry? Or was that relief on her face? Either way, she smiled wanly.

  “Then tell me about your family? They sold the house and auto shop, didn’t they?”

  “I don’t know if the shop sold yet.” As if he hadn’t lost all emotional control, he took a cup of coffee from her. He filled her in on Nash, Shelby, and Ace, who would be livid once they found out he’d left the medical facility against medical advice, and who—possibly—had no clue he’d returned to Bluewater Bay.

  “. . . Dad and Fjóla are awesome, but they want to drop what they’re doing and hover until I’m back to normal, and that’s the last thing any of us needs.”

  “Call them.” Her sharp green eyes drilled holes in him. Her voice stayed gentle.

  “I’ll call them.” He nodded slowly. He was so tired. She was right. He should call them.

  She smiled. “Do it now.”

  He had his phone out before he realized he was acting like a muppet. “You still have that mind-control thing, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Because then you’d have to kill me.”

  She smiled serenely.

  His father answered on the fourth ring.

  “About time you called me.” Pop’s angry voice was firmly in place.

  “Because you make it so rewarding.”

  A sigh. “Good to hear your voice, Heals.”

  “You too.”

  So saying, Healey’s world went click and the ground beneath his feet got pieced back together like it was made of Lego bricks. What was it about fathers, anyway? The minute he heard his pop’s voice growling at him from—where were they now? New Guinea?—his heart settled happily in his chest. Bland music played in the background wherever he was.

  “You left the hospital,” his pop grumbled. “Nash is furious.”

  He deserved that. “I know.”

  “You left before Fjóla and I could even get on a plane. No one knew where you went. Do you know how that made me feel? Especially when I spoke to Ford’s parents? I had to tell them I didn’t know how to find you.”

  God, Ford.

  Pop’s tone softened. “The arraignment went without a hitch, Heals. Ford got bail.”

  “I know.” Did his father think he’d run away from everyone’s questions? “I’ve been interviewed too, Pop. I told the police everything.”

  An audible hesitation on his pop’s part told Healey to brace himself.

  “You should call his folks. They need to hear the whole story from you.”

  “No way.” He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. “No way.”

  Pop paused a long time. Only the background music told Healey they still had a connection. “Is it because when you remember it, you relive it?”

  “No.” He didn’t have to relieve that last evening with Ford to want to put it out of his mind. The accident had been terrifying, but Ford’s behavior . . .

  In retrospect, it was Healey’s graduation that’d changed everything. Things hadn’t been working between Healey and Ford for a while, but they’d agreed that stress was playing a negative role, and once Healey defended, they could kick back and enjoy things.

  But while Ford had agreed with Healey’s assessment, and they’d both said all the right things, Healey’d still felt uneasy. They’d been fighting a lot. Healey wanted to take a little time out after graduation. He wanted to be with his family and travel. Maybe even do some volunteer work for one of the many environmental groups he supported.

  Ford had a vice presidency in his father’s corporation to look forward to. He didn’t have to decide what to do next. His parents were going to gift him with an expense account, a condo in the correct zip code, and a company car.

  That last night, all their problems—all the ways they weren’t compatible—erupted into a massive take-no-prisoners fight. They’d spent hours hashing things out. In the end, they’d agreed to end things amicably, with respect.

  Healey’d felt a tingle of caution. Ford’s behavior had—at times—been unpredictable, but as far as Healey knew, he’d bee
n faithfully taking his meds.

  Ford was angry, but he’d agreed.

  Ford had been quiet, but not . . . upset. Not then, anyway.

  He’d suggested they take a Vegas trip—one last mad adventure together.

  Ford had acted in control. Amiable. Relaxed. Charming. Healey’d gone along, ignoring his instincts—he’d hesitated to call Ford’s family for help—and things went sour. The rest was history, now.

  “You were there.” Pop ignored his protests. “Ford says he doesn’t remember. You’re the only one who can answer Ford’s family’s questions.”

  Ford’s parents loved Healey, and he loved them. They’d expect him to back up anything Ford told the police about their accident.

  But they were the ones building a narrative based on a lie.

  “What I remember will ruin everything for Ford.”

  “How can that be?”

  On some level, Healey knew what he ought to do. He ought to step up and tell the whole truth about the accident.

  But how could he face either set of parents with the truth?

  How could he tell them he’d ignored those crucial, crucial signs?

  “Where are you?” his father asked.

  Where? I’m home. And it’s not working. “I’m in Bluewater Bay, Pop.”

  “Why? When you could go anywhere in the world?”

  “It’s home, I guess. Even now. I wanted—” Throat burning, he closed his eyes, unable to finish the sentence.

  When was he going to get a handle on all this crying?

  His pop took pity on him. “I’m so sorry, Heals. Me and Fjóla are wrapping things up here. We’ll be home before you know it.”

  “No way, Pop. Don’t. This obviously isn’t home anymore. Let me get past the broken bones. Once the arm heals—”

  “You need more than medical attention, son. Did you even find a place to stay during the tourist swarm?”

  “I’m at Clara Underhill’s right now.” If his dad understood him to mean he was staying with Clara, the only result was the discomfort that came with a mild half-truth.

  On the other hand, Clara glared at him because she wasn’t a half-truth kind of person and never had been. He muted his phone to argue with her, then paused. He couldn’t stay in Nash’s old place.