Page 115 of Sinful
Fuck you, Andrés. You don't get to haunt me anymore.
I finish packing in silence, moving through the apartment on autopilot.
Clothes, books, the few things worth keeping.
Everything fits into two duffel bags and a backpack.
Three years of my life reduced to luggage I can carry on a bike.
Sharp, Texas appears on my GPS after thirty-three minutes of highway driving.
The sun is starting to set, painting everything gold and orange.
The landscape shifts from Austin's urban sprawl to something quieter, more open.
Rural Texas with a wide sky and endless horizon.
I take the exit, follow the GPS through town.
Main Street is exactly what I expected—small, quiet, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone.
There's a diner called Rosie's with a neon sign flickering in the window.
A hardware store. A gas station with ancient pumps. A few shops that look like they've been there since the seventies.
And there—on the corner—the garage I noticed on my first drive through.
Sharp Auto & Cycle Repair.
I pull into the parking lot, kill the engine, just sit there staring.
It's bigger than I thought.
Two garage bays, both currently closed.
Clean exterior, well-maintained.
Through the front window I can see someone moving around inside—closing up for the day, probably.
And taped to the front door: "HELP WANTED - Mechanic/Bike Specialist."
My heart stutters.
I could do this. I'm good with bikes.
Great with them, actually.
I could work here, build a reputation, maybe save up and open my own shop eventually.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the sign.
Evidence. Proof this is real.
I drive to Rosie's Diner, park, walk inside.
The bell above the door chimes and every head turns—small town reflexes.
Strangers always get noticed.
