Page 87 of The Promises We Broke
"The kind that took three months and a lot of favors to pull off," Booker said. "Dex, you want to do the honors?"
Dex stepped forward, and for the first time since he'd knocked on my door, he was really smiling. "Remember after the accident, you asked about your grandfather's motorcycle?"
My heart stopped. "Dex, don't..."
"We told you it was totaled in the accident," he continued. "That it wasn't salvageable."
"Because it wasn't," I said quickly, not wanting to go down this road. The loss of the bike had been almost as devastating as the physical injuries. It was the last real connection I'd had to him, the thing that had gotten me through the worst years of my life. The only piece of home I'd allowed myself to take with me.
"We may have bent the truth a little," Trace said, his grin getting wider.
"What?"
"It was in bad shape," Booker admitted. "Really bad shape. But Dex here thought it might be worth saving."
I looked at Dex, who shrugged. "Your brothers contacted me the day after your accident. Asked if there was any way to recover it, any way to fix it. I told them I'd try."
"But you said..."
"I said it might not be possible," Dex corrected. "I never said it wasn't worth trying."
Cade couldn't wait any longer. He grabbed the corner of the tarp and yanked it off with a theatrical flourish.
Underneath was my grandfather's 1967 Triumph Bonneville, restored to absolute perfection. The black paint gleamed in the porch light, every chrome detail polished to mirror brightness. It looked exactly the way I remembered it from my childhood, when Grandpa would take me for rides around the ranch on Sunday afternoons. Better than it had looked before that SUV had collided with me on that fateful morning.
I couldn't breathe.
"Surprise!" Cade shouted, but his voice sounded far away.
I walked toward the bike on unsteady legs, my hands shaking as I reached out to touch the fuel tank. The metal was warm and real under my fingers. This wasn't a dream or some cruel joke. This was actually Grandpa's bike, restored and perfect and here.
"How?" I whispered.
"Dex spent every weekend for three months tracking down parts," Xander said. "Original everything—engine, transmission, even the seat leather."
"Some of it had to be rebuilt from scratch," Dex added. "The front fork was completely destroyed, and the engine needed a full rebuild. But the frame was solid, and I had most of your grandfather's original tools to work with."
I ran my hands over the handlebars, remembering the first time I felt them under my ten-year-old grip. "I can't believe you did this."
"We wanted you to have it back," Booker said simply. "We know what it meant to you."
That's when the tears started. Not just a few that I could blink away, but the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and broken, the kind that had been building up for months. I leaned against the bike and let it come, not caring that my whole family was watching.
"Hey," Trace said, moving to put a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay."
"I thought it was gone," I managed between sobs. "I thought I'd lost the last piece of him."
"You didn't lose anything," Jasper said, his voice rough with emotion. "We just had to put it back together."
I straightened up, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "This isn't just about the bike."
"No," Booker agreed quietly. "It's not."
"This is about wanting me here. Really wanting me here, as part of this family." I looked around at all of them, seeing nothing but love and acceptance in their faces. "There's been this part of me, this tiny part, that kept wondering if you all just felt obligated to forgive me. If you were just going through the motions because I'm your brother."
"Gage..." Xander started.
"But this," I said, gesturing at the motorcycle, "this is proof. You didn't have to do this. You spent months and probably a fortune bringing back something to me just because it was important to me."
