All Wheel Drive

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Because “the worst thing” wasn’t what happened to him. He could take anything.

  But when Mami died, even though he knew she was in a better place, he’d been devastated. Because he had to stay here, alone.

  The worst thing was falling for someone. Love made you too vulnerable.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fall for him and then watch him walk away.”

  “You can protect your heart too much, you know. Is he the type to quit?”

  Healey? Probably not. No.

  He’d stayed with Ford, despite his journey with mental illness. He’d stayed and been part of Ford’s treatment plan. He’d done his best, and he was eating himself alive that he couldn’t do more.

  Christ.

  “He’s the little engine that could. He’d never abandon a friend in need.” Diego ground the heel of his hand into the ache over his eye. “Never. What am I even thinking—”

  “Don’t do that,” Cecil chided. “Don’t make that a bad thing. This boy you like is the loyal type?”

  Loyal enough to defend the guy who’d practically killed him. “To a fault.”

  “And he’s nice?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s awesome.” Cecil’s sappy happiness came through loud and clear. “You deserve loyalty and love and laughter. You deserve a decent guy.”

  “I don’t exactly know if he’s decent. He’s not a bigot or a homophobe, and he’d be nice to his mother, except she’s dead.”

  “Mmm.” Cecil’s thinking sound.

  “What?”

  “Two motherless boys. That makes me sad, somehow. When I lost my mother, I thought the sun would never feel warm again. I thought the soil would spit her right back out, and the earth should simply stop rotating—”

  “A’ight, Clarence Darrow. That’s a little grim.” He snapped his mouth shut.

  Knowing when to silence Cecil’s penchant for oratory had been his mother’s specialty. He’d never done such a thing before. Couldn’t imagine what made him do it now.

  “Gabbi must be sitting on your shoulder right now.” The warmth in Cecil’s voice absolved him. Gooseflesh covered his arms.

  Yes . . . he could feel her.

  This belief in things unseen was the one thing he couldn’t share with Healey—the feeling he had that sometimes, some part of his mother’s essence remained with him, as vital and vibrant as ever. There were days he could feel her inside his heart, quarterbacking every little play, as controlling as she’d been in life.

  Today appeared to be one of those.

  “I’ve been feeling her presence a lot lately.”

  “Yeah?” Cecil prompted. “Then you know you’re on the right track. Gabbi won’t steer you wrong. You are her world.”

  Are. Are.

  Cecil believes.

  Diego tapped his trackpad, and his computer came to life. His voice was little more than a croak when he spoke. “I’m sending you a link. Let me know what you think.”

  Diego uploaded the most recent video he’d created, using one of his mother’s podcast interviews to give voice to another part of her story. He sent the link to Cecil, listening to Cecil’s movements as he opened the file on his end. Music signaled he’d started playing it right then, so Diego waited while he watched.

  There was something so comforting about the presence of another human, even on the phone. Before Healey, Diego hadn’t let himself consider things like whether he might be lonely. Now, as he soaked up each little tick of Cecil’s fingers on the keys, the clink of a pencil, and the sound of a mug hitting the desk, he knew he’d been kidding himself.

  The clip showed how Gabriella Maria Montenegro, a birthright citizen of the United States, was deported with her family in the late eighties. How from an early age, she was determined to return and make a life for herself. How getting pregnant out of wedlock at fifteen forced her hand when her parents threatened her with placing her baby up for adoption whether she wanted that or not.

  While Cecil watched the clip, Diego opened a bottle of water. He told himself his suddenly dry mouth wasn’t because he was worried what Cecil thought of his efforts so far. He told himself that Gabbi was his mother, after all, and no one except maybe Gabbi could tell her story better than he could.

  He told himself these things, but still he wasn’t satisfied. The voice-over wasn’t dynamic enough. The images were bland and unemotional. The journey the young Gabbi had taken to get to the States had been frightening and perilous, but the clips he had didn’t leverage enough emotion, and therefore, they lacked tangible tension.

  If only he could travel to Mexico, to his grandparents’ place, and start from there. Because he knew . . . he knew. To tell his mother’s story properly, he had to walk in her shoes.

  Walk.

  He wanted to cry.

  “I’m not sure this is going to work.” Diego waited until Cecil had finished the clip to speak again. “It’s not very compelling, is it? I keep reaching for the tone I want to take, trying to find the right pictures, but it seems so goddamn static. Maybe I’m just too close to the subject this time.”

  “Of course you are. If you weren’t, it would be easy.”

  Diego muttered, “I guess.”

  “I don’t need to tell you hard things can be worth doing.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Diego was glad Cecil couldn’t see the color in his cheeks.

  “Only you can do this for her, m’hijo.”

  “But no pressure,” he groused.

  Cecil snorted. “Pressure can be as good as hard. You’ll find your road. I have faith in you. You have a good eye.”

  “Okay.” As an afterthought, Diego asked, “You know what? You’ve probably heard about this dude I’m seeing. Remember that Stanford student who got arrested?”

  “There have been a couple of Stanford students in the news recently. Made me glad I went to CAL. You’re not seeing one of those guys?” Worry hovered on the edge of his voice.

  “The man I’m talking about was the passenger in a car chase. In fact, he’s going to want a consultation, eventually. Or a name. Someone he can trust.”

  “I don’t remember the details.” Cecil’s fingers tapped on the keys again. “Ah. Yeah. What did your young man tell you?”

  “There’s a gag order in place, so he wouldn’t talk at first. That didn’t stop me from finding things out. Probably not the best thing to do, researching him like that.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “I know, right?” Diego gave his arm a scratch before lifting himself off the seat to decompress his spine and give his skin some air. “I’m a journalist. I can’t stand secrets.”

  “That’s what makes you good at your job.”

  Hold, hold, hold. Diego’s had to strain to keep himself off his chair. It felt good, to stretch like that. “Used to.” He relaxed back into his seat.

  “Your curiosity is still perfectly fine.”

  Cecil’s fatherly tone signaled the point he was trying to make was important to him. Also that he thought Diego was being a bit of a dumbass. He could do that in such a loving way you never felt it. That was part of Cecil’s charm.

  “Your brain works,” he continued. “You are on the sunny side of the grass. I leave it to you to MacGyver the rest. Of all my boys—and I would never say this to them, mind you—you’re the toughest. It’s because your mom was a bona fide badass.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m working on a theory right now. I’ll let you know if it pans out.”

  “Is this about the graffiti? Rachel showed me those billboard pictures. I totally buy Gabbi painting those signs. It’s exactly the kind of thing she’d get up to.”

  “She didn’t sleep well,” Diego mused. “Sometimes on the road, she’d get restless, and I’d wake up in an empty motel room. Used to scare me shitless until I got old enough to take care of myself. She always came
back.”

  Until she couldn’t.

  “Gabbi was—” Cecil seemed to choose his words carefully. “There were things about your mother I never understood. She could be hard sometimes. She could be selfish. Did she know you woke up while she was gone?”

  “Yeah.” Cecil saw his mother clearly—loved her despite her flaws. It took a heavy weight from Diego’s shoulders. They both loved Gabbi, but neither had any illusions. Cecil wouldn’t want him to staple a posthumous halo and wings on her.

  Gabbi was no angel.

  “It was unconscionable for her to do that.” Disappointment laced Cecil’s voice. “I would have talked with her about it if I’d known. I’d have put a stop to it.”

  Those weren’t idle words. He adopted Diego immediately after marrying Gabbi, giving him his name and his protection. He treated Diego the same as his biological kids, leaving a seven-figure job to spend more time with them when Gabbi got sick. Now, he advocated for her causes.

  “She wasn’t an easy person,” Diego said finally.

  “She loved fiercely.” Cecil took a deep breath, and if Diego wasn’t mistaken, he was probably wiping his eyes with one of his ubiquitous, white tone-on-tone monogrammed handkerchiefs. “This conversation is too serious. Tell me about this man you’ve met.”

  Diego hesitated. Did he want to jinx things? “How about I’ll tell you if anything more happens?”

  “If you want to play it that way for a while, it’s okay.” Cecil let himself be diverted by talk of the weather, the video, and what his kids were up to.

  They spent a little time talking about whether Diego should consider returning to journalism. Diego argued he wasn’t fit for the work anymore, but lately . . . lately lots of things that seemed impossible—

  “Like Gabbi, in her way, you have a unique ability to shine the light of reason on unreasonable things,” Cecil offered. “You have a good eye, and a gift for telling a very human story through the lens of your camera. This will be needed more than ever in the coming years.”

  “Dad.” Any more than one syllable would break him open—Pandora’s piñata, with all his shortcomings and fears and failings tumbling out.

  “When you’ve licked your wounds enough, you won’t be able to stay in your cave. You don’t run away from hard things.”

  “I can’t.”

  Cecil took a while to respond. “Let this new guy storm the castle walls, Diego. Let yourself have something good for a change. You deserve it.”

  “Okay. Maybe . . . A’ight.” Diego took a deep swig of water, capped his bottle, and put it down. “After I get this thing with Mami squared away.”

  “No. No waiting,” Cecil said firmly. “Don’t let anything pass you by anymore. Time is short.”

  Diego’s resolution wavered only so long. “Okay, counselor. Anything to make this line of questioning stop.” Witnesses probably got better treatment.

  “I expect you to promise.” The teasing note was back in Cecil’s voice.

  When they hung up, Diego felt lighter, especially later that night, when he got a text from Healey. Why haven’t you called me? I’ve been slow-playing this jam but I’m a seriously hot motherfucker even though I am right-handed and I would love to

  It ended there.

  Diego waited.

  Another message two seconds later confirmed his theory that the original message didn’t originate from Healey Holly’s smooth white, mathematician’s hands, but Nash’s calloused mechanic’s mitts.

  Christ, I’m sorry. That was The Evil One. That fucking bastard, I’ll kill him. Look, I’m sorry, okay? He’s, like, emotionally seven

  A second later, he had another message: inches flaccid

  And another: I will kill him

  Diego typed, Are you guys through puberty yet?

  You should know.

  Diego used the puking emoji. Healey wasn’t capable of manipulation. But Nash . . . Oh, well. Someone had to put him and Healey out of their misery.

  Nash had clearly lost patience with them.

  Why don’t you come over, Heals. Leave that ugly brother of yours to sext with his movie star. I’ll let you put your dick down my throat . . .

  He stared at his phone. Waited. Waited . . .

  The phone rang.

  “This is Nash. Healey left, but he’s going to realize his phone is still here in three . . . two . . . one . . .” The call disconnected.

  A few seconds later, Diego got another text. OMW

  Rainclouds gathered over the sound—a storm, blowing in fast. As Healey left Fjóla’s place, the first fat droplets drummed on the roof of his SUV. His windshield wipers moved in time to Green Day’s “American Idiot”—at least until he changed the radio station and The Killers took over.

  He wondered what Diego would think of them. On second thought, he didn’t wonder, he already knew Diego thought he was a geek with craptastic taste in music and— Were they even friends?

  Healey took his foot off the gas.

  He had a couple of preconceived notions where Diego was concerned. Maybe his ideas were all wrong too. Maybe Diego hadn’t been completely unmoved that last time. He’d seemed to soak up all the affection Healey wanted to give without a fight.

  Healey’s hands tightened on the wheel. “What am I doing?”

  Diego ticked off every one of Healey’s secret buttons. He was tough and strong and bright. Kind and not easily won over. A little angry. A little proud. Diego wasn’t a fairy-tale prince. But when Healey made him smile, when he made Diego forget himself for a minute, he earned a bare, brief glimmer of the man behind the mystery.

  And what a glimmer it was . . .

  Diego—the guy waiting to be discovered if only he could learn to trust—was crack to Healey.

  Just like Ford had been crack.

  Oh, geez. He coasted onto a side street because he needed to think things through.

  Slowing to a stop, he left the engine running—the wipers rocking—as he used clumsy fingers to message the one person he knew would understand.

  Am I like Pop?

  Nash’s text reply was instantaneous. I knew you’d freak out.

  His phone rang in his hands, so he answered Nash’s call with a swipe of one finger. “Am I?”

  Nash growled, “Don’t overthink your shit all the time.”

  “I stuck with Ford. Sometimes I enabled him and ultimately, that hurt him more than it helped him. I was like some well-meaning idiot who—”

  “Wait a damned minute. You weren’t his doctor. You weren’t his therapist. You were his boyfriend. If anyone dropped the ball, it was them.”

  “But—”

  “Look. I’ve thought about this, all right? It’s not the same. You were with Ford long before he had his first breakdown,” Nash said. “But Pop went all in with Christine despite knowing she was an addict. By the time he realized how badly things could go, they were already married, and he stuck by her, trying to help because he’s a decent guy. He was a frog in hot water. He hoped for the best and never even realized that soup smell was our family, boiling alive.”

  “Jesus, Nash.”

  “The difference is,” Nash said irritably, “Ford wasn’t Christine. Diego isn’t Christine. You see people for who they are, and Pop sees them for what they could be. If you’re worried you won’t pull the ripcord and save yourself? Well. You’re a decent guy like Pop. Probably you wouldn’t. That’s why you have me.”

  “Wow.”

  “Getting to know Diego is the only way to find out who he is. Just go in with your eyes wide open.”

  In a small voice, Healey asked, “Does this say something about me? Is Diego’s fear that I might be some kind of freak or fetishist, even . . . maybe . . . partly true?”

  “I don’t think so. But what if it is?” Nash asked. “I dig repressed English guys with freckles. People have types.”

  “That’s hardly the same thing.”

  “Maybe you resonate to complex personality issues. Or maybe you see
how a dude’s challenges make him stronger and you admire him for it. Look at Shelby. She’s a fucking badass. When she’s ready to date, there’d better be a guy or girl who can see beyond the SCI to how amazing she is. You can’t separate her from her chair. That’s part of what makes her who she is.”

  That felt almost true. “But—”

  “Maybe you should assume you like complicated people because you love the labyrinthine. Liking someone who is intricate is a good thing.”

  “When you put it that way . . .” Healey swallowed. “I—I owe it to Diego to think this through going in. The last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

  “Yeah, but don’t overthink. Let him decide when he’s ready. Don’t you dare make the decision for him. You know how much you’d hate that.”

  Healey grimaced. “I know.”

  “And you could try talking to him instead of me,” Nash chided. In the background, there was a game on the television. “Tell him all this shit.”

  Healey frowned into the darkness beyond his rain-spattered windshield. Nash didn’t need to hear him agree. He disconnected the call and put the car in gear.

  Opening the door to a timid knock, Diego found Healey beneath the porch light, good hand shoved in his pocket. He rolled backward so Healey could step inside.

  “I need to tell you something.” Healey leaned against the wall just inside the door. He didn’t look like he was going to come all the way inside until he could get whatever it was off his chest.

  Diego braced himself for disappointment as he closed the door behind them.

  “I’m not a freak or a dude with a fetish, but I don’t know how I’d feel if you weren’t in that chair.” Healey’s face was pale in the light from the door’s glass window. His gaze didn’t move from Diego’s feet.

  Diego stiffened. “What the actual fuck?”

  Healey spoke softly. “I know that’s not what you need to hear from me.”

  “You don’t know what I need,” Diego said tiredly, since it sounded like this might be the beginning of the end for them. “But that’s sure the hell not what I want to hear.”