Page 63 of The Older Brother
“What’s coming in next? I didn’t bother to look too closely at the day’s docket. I figured I’d still be at the precinct right now.”
“Get this, you know that band they’re playing a lot lately on the alt channel, Killer Mongoose?”
I shake my head because I don’t listen to anything Mig doesn’t introduce me to. I’m too busy treading water just to breathe. I don’t have spare minutes to spend on music apps, and if it’s not on my phone playlist right now, it’s not getting heard.
“Right, well, they’re about to blow up. Anyhow, I guess they’re in town for a gig, and . . .”
I shift my posture, straightening my spine and drying my suddenly sweaty palms in my pockets.
“I guess a few of the guys are from the area, so it’s like a homecoming show and shit. And the lead guitarist has this seventies Ford pickup, with original olive-green paint. And?—”
“Fuuuuuuck,” I breathe out, closing my eyes and tilting my head back.
“I mean, yeah. Olive green isn’t everyone’s taste, but?—”
“No, that’s not it. I know the truck. I know the guy.” I peek back inside the garage, to the back rooms where Saylor is still stripping out of her shirt and putting on one of mine. Just intime for her dad to pull up in the same fucking truck I helped him pack when he ended his marriage and left her mom.
“Yeah? His name’s Jason something . . . I can look.” Mig starts to walk back to the desk, but I touch his shoulder, stopping him.
“It’s Jason Kelly. Saylor’s dad.” I study my friend’s movement, his slow pivot as he mentally puts together the little pieces I shared with him years ago. Mig’s always been the one person I could talk to, and I’ve had to hold so many things inside, alone, that when something had to give, I shared the details of Saylor’s dad finding out about her mom’s affair . . . with my dad. At the same time I found out.
“Oh . . . shit.” His wide eyes probably mirror mine. My stomach churns, and my mouth feels bone dry.
I couldn’t tell Caleb back then because the less he knew, the better. That fact still stands. And I didn’t want to blow up Saylor’s life. I still don’t. I figured I’d be able to handle a short meet and greet, maybe even a dinner with her dad during his gig. I’ve been mentally preparing for it. But I’m not ready now. Especially knowing that he must know I’m one of the owners here. His visit feels suddenly intentional. And it’s beginning . . . right . . . now.
“Is that?” Saylor steps through the back doorway and points out toward the lot where a familiar classic F-250 crawls to a stop.
“Daddy!” She rushes toward the truck just as the driver’s door opens. My feet, however, are suddenly set in cement.
“Like I said, it was nice seeing you happy . . . while it lasted.” Mig slaps my back and heads toward our next client while I try to dislodge my tongue from my throat.
Chapter 20
I’m instantly transportedto my eighth birthday, my dad swinging me around while I hang onto his neck. A giddy girl happy to see her dad and ready for her birthday cake. My birthday may be a few months from now, but this gift is better than any cake I’ll have.
“Why are you here?” It’s hard to speak through my wide grin, but I manage to as he sets my feet back on the ground. He looks good. Healthy, maybe dressed a little nicer than normal. His band is doing well.
“We had an extra day built in, and since we’re still rag-tagging across the country in our own cars, I thought maybe I’d build in an extra day and get Nancy checked out by a hot new classics shop I’ve been hearing about.” His gaze drifts from my face to over my shoulder. I twist my head and find Rowan a few feet behind me, hands shoved in his pockets and his modest smile pushing dimples into his cheeks.
“Nancy’s the truck, by the way,” I explain to Rowan.
He nods.
“I remember.” Stepping forward, Rowan pulls his hands from his pockets, then runs his palm across the front of his shirt before reaching out to shake my father’s hand.
“Good to see you, Rowan. This is quite the enterprise you’ve started.” My dad nods toward the sign perched above the open bay doors that reads Old 66 Restoration. It’s an homage to the classic route, which runs through the northern part of the state.
“Things are going well. Just gotta keep feeding it, ya know?” Rowan holds his palm at his brow to shade his eyes from the sun as my father nods.
“Yeah, that’s the secret. I know a thing or two about feeding the passion, little by little,” my father responds.
The two of them exhale with easy laughter, and my chest swells with a comforting warmth. My two favorite men seem so good together. I suck in my top lip when I realize that I’ve put Rowan on par with my father suddenly. It feels right, though.
“Mr. Kelly. It’s good to see you.” Miguel steps up, shaking my dad’s hand. The three of them spend the next few minutes sharing mutual praise—my dad for their entrepreneurial spirit, and them for my dad’s growing music success. I step back to watch and listen, suddenly feeling like the people I’m surrounding myself with are the right ones.
“Let’s pull her in and take a look,” Miguel finally says, holding out his hand to take my father’s keys.
“You can sit in here with me,” I say, waving my hand over my shoulder to encourage my dad to follow me into the garage.
