Page 16 of False Start

“You know, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Not really.” Derek pitched forward, sliding his hand across the table and giving mine a squeeze.

“I want to,” I said with inflated confidence. “We’ll go on the rally, do a terrible job, see some weird stuff, and I can sell the car. Done and done.”

Derek frowned, grasping the mug with both hands, his eyes roving mine. He looked uneasy, and I hated making him feel thatway. Hated the look of sadness in his eyes that bordered on pity. Hated that my dad’s death was the only event that drove us apart rather than closer.

Because my version of grief turned out to be the exact opposite of his. While Derek cried and drew our friends closer, I pushed them all away. I wanted space. I didn’t want to talk about my dad, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be reminded of his death.

But the car was one hell of a reminder.

When it’d lived at my childhood home, at least I could ignore it. But then Mom, supported by a bevy of therapists, friends, and family, moved across the country. She would have sold the car. All I had to do was ask, but I couldn’t.

I’d been useless at his funeral. I didn’t know his favorite song or his favorite color or what flowers he liked. But, as a kid, I’d sat in the garage listening to rock and my dad dream about racing the Cougar.

Sure, the car would never survive Le Mans or a NASCAR track or even a cross-country race. Rust and time had ravaged the chassis, and even in its current state, I barely trusted the engine at highway speeds. But Dad wanted to race it. Compete with it. And now that he was gone, I could do it for him.

“You don’thaveto sell the car, you know.”

I’d whittled down the pile of my dad’s belongings to a box of photographs I didn’t have the heart to look at and the car. Shaking my head, I exhaled. “I’m sure somebody wants that hunk of junk, especially now that it runs.Ifit runs after five days on the road. Maybe I can sell it when the rally is over, and we’ll fly back home.”

People had sold their cars after other rallies. Get enough car enthusiasts in one place, the ones in the rally and the curious onlookers who come out to the finish line, and someone mightbuy the car. I could finish the race and close that chapter of my life. Goodbye car, goodbye dad.

“Nobody wants that car,” Derek scoffed. “No offense.”

“Someone might.”

“And certainly not for enough money to get both of us a plane ticket.”

I grinned. “Probably not. But after I get my promotion, I’ll have plenty of money to splurge on things like plane tickets.”

Derek sighed, resting his forearms on the table, leaning closer to me. “Or maybe you can take a breath, enjoy the experience, and not worry about the finish line?”

“What does that mean?” I bristled at the tone in his voice. That mildly exasperated tone he used when I forgot to start the dishwasher or left a trail of clothes on my way to the shower.

His lips twisted, mouth opening and shutting like a fish before he spoke. “I just think you need to enjoy the ride and stop thinking about the future for a minute.”

“Enjoy the ride?” I laughed.

What was there to enjoy about the last four years? Long hours at the hospital followed by hours of studying for a degree I should have gotten in three years. But the death of my father set me back a semester, which turned into a year thanks to the classes I needed only being offered in the fall.

Other than the occasional trip to the pier, I hadn’t touched a beach outside of Virginia in years. I spent my vacation days at home, watching my mom catapult from one extreme to the next. Crying, convinced she’d always be alone to giddy over a new boyfriend, and now, a move across the country.

“I know you’re doing this for your dad.” Derek picked at the words carefully, his hand outstretched and his tone soft. “But you’re doing it for yourself too, right?”

“A car rally down to Florida isn’t really my idea of a vacation,” I admitted. But it’d close a chapter of my life. A stressful chapter. “But, yeah, it’ll be fun. A real hoot.”

“Don’t be sassy with me, Miss Mechanic.” Derek shook his head. “And thanks formostlygetting along with Trent at music trivia. You really had to argue about Monkey Station though?”

“You know how I feel about that band,” I laughed. “Misidentifying their first drummer? Unforgivable.”

“Of all the bands he could have screwed up, he had to pick Monkey Station.” He shook his head. “He made a shitty first impression. Don’t hold that against him forever.”

“He also made a bad second impression, third impression, fourth impression?—”

“You were chatting nicely when he came over for the soccer game.”

“He caught me off guard. I was tired. And hungry. I’m kinder when there’s food.”

“Give him a chance.”

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