THE RULE OF THREE_A.C.H.E., MOTO, and TRINITY

by M. Never

  We race neck and neck down the straight, our fairings bumping and our times fluctuating by a fraction of a second. I see my conquest a quarter of a mile away. I abuse the throttle, topping out at two hundred miles per hour, it becoming nearly impossible to keep the machine on the ground. I ride a rocket toward the finish line, the Irishman unrelenting. I mold my body as tightly to the bike as I can, eradicating as much headwind as possible. I jump into first place centimeters before the white line, a checkered flag waving in my peripheral vision. I zoom past the grandstand where I know Kayla and Dev are sitting. My emotions explode and my nervous system erupts as a feeling of euphoria spreads through my limbs like a contact high. I. WIN!

  I pull the battered bike over to the designated area and just for shits and giggles, burnout; kicking up a huge cloud of smoke, creating one big fucking spectacle.

  It feels like I hit a grand slam in the World Series, sunk a hole in one at the Masters, and knocked out Mike Tyson all in one shot. I’m standing on top of the world, and the view is fucking spectacular.

  I dismount my R1, on a mission. People are congratulating me left and right as I search for my wife. She and our unborn child are the only things that can elevate this monumental moment.

  I see her running toward me, smiling and jumping, as excited as I am. But as hard as I try to get to her, it suddenly feels like I’m trudging through sand. My limbs become heavy, my lungs deflate, and my chest tears open. I clutch my hand over my heart as my knees give out.

  I hear Kayla’s blood-curdling scream as I hit the ground. I see the panic on her face and the terror in her eyes as she hovers over me.

  “Reese!” Her distressed voice is the last thing I hear before the world goes completely and utterly black.

  Epilogue

  REESE

  18 years later

  “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Cici, happy birthday to you.”

  I flutter my eyes open to my mother holding a pink cupcake with a lit candle. She’s woken me up every birthday the exact same way. I push myself up, my long dark hair falling to the side in a mess of bedhead.

  “Dad’s going to be mad you serenaded me without him.” I take a deep breath and blow out the candle.

  “He’ll be up.” My mom smiles at me. “I wanted a few minutes alone with you anyway. I won’t get to do this next year.”

  “Over the phone?” I offer an alternative as I steal some sugary frosting with my index finger.

  “It won’t be the same.” She sadly mimics my movements, taking some frosting for herself. “I don’t know how eighteen years went by so fast.”

  “Mom, don’t depress me on my birthday.” I roll my eyes, sucking the frosting off my finger. Parents.

  “I don’t mean to.” She livens up. My mother, although loving and nurturing, is not usually the melodramatic type. It’s clear this birthday is affecting her. “I have . . .” She’s interrupted by a rap on the door. “Knock, knock.” My father walks in. “Morning, birthday girl.” He beams as he strides across the room to kiss both my mother and me.

  “Morning.” I return his sentiment, enjoying the sugar rush from the homemade cupcake.

  “I came to see what my girls want for breakfast.”

  “Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream!” Per tradition.

  “Why did I even bother to ask?” He chuckles.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you just wanted an excuse to see me,” I offer up haughtily.

  My parents share a sideways glance—one they often exchange in my presence.

  “I don’t need an excuse. I’m your father, if I want to see you, I’ll see you.” He drops a stern kiss on my head.

  “Where are the boys?” I ask. Usually, by now, my younger brothers, Kyle and Kennedy, are bouncing on the bed, causing a ruckus like the little pests they are.

  “The chuckleheads? They’re still sleeping. They stayed up all night playing Xbox. I’m sure we won’t see them until lunch.” He pretends to sound annoyed, but he isn’t fooling anyone. The bags under his eyes are telling. I guarantee he was right there with them, racing virtual superbikes until midnight. It may be snowy and the middle of January, but those three will always find a way to ride. Simulated or not.

  “I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.” He delivers one more lingering kiss before my mother and I watch him strut out of the room.

  “Dad! Extra whipped cream!” I yell as his dark head disappears down the stairs. “Extra, got it!” He throws his hand up in acknowledgment before he’s gone.

  I love that man. Even though he’s not my biological father, he’s the only paternal figure I’ve ever known. My birth father was a motorcycle racing legend who died before I was born. From what my mother tells me, he was an amazing human being. And every birthday, I wish the same thing—that I could’ve known him. I’ve often wondered how my mom ended up marrying my uncle, and every time I ask, all she’ll say is that their relationship was complicated, and one day, when I’m older, she’ll tell me the whole story. I’m eighteen now. How much older do I have to be?

  “Should we go help Dad make breakfast?” I throw the covers off eagerly. If you want to get me out of bed, all you have to do is mention whipped cream.

  “Umm...” She places a hand on my thigh. “In one second. I want to give you something first.”

  “Oh? Presents?” I bounce on the mattress. I’m as bad as the ten and twelve-year-olds sleeping down the hall.

  “Yes, presents.” She pulls out a long box from underneath my messy blanket.

  I take it excitedly. It’s wrapped so beautifully, in shiny white paper and a curly bow. “I’ve waited a long time to give this to you.” She watches as I rip off the paper. I pop open the box and stare at the contents. It’s a necklace, I think. My mom pulls it from the cushion and holds it up. “It’s your father’s heartbeat. He gave it to me when he asked me to marry him.”

  A lump immediately forms in my throat.

  “His real live heartbeat?” I touch the squiggly lines made of diamonds lightly, feeling unexpectedly close to him. Maybe the closest I’ve ever felt.

  “Mmm hmm,” she confirms wistfully.

  I have a lot of my father’s memorabilia—trophies, helmets, even his motorcycle jacket, but nothing as personal as this. Nothing that made him feel so . . . real.

  “I wish I knew him.” I clench my jaw as my eyes sting. I don’t want to cry, but I know it’s inevitable. My father is a sensitive subject for both of us.

  “Oh, honey. You do know him.” My mother’s voice is laced with love and compassion. “You are him. You have his spirit and his fire and his drive. You even have his eyes.” She caresses my face. “Every time we look at you, we seem him.”

  My lip trembles. “Really?”

  “Really. He loved you, and he wanted you, just as much as I did.”

  I smile through my tears as she hands me one more present. It’s large and flat like a book. I open it swiftly and read the title aloud. “The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. You used to read this to me all the time.”

  “This book is special, though.”

  She flips it open to the first page, where there’s a handwritten quote. “If there ever comes a day where we can’t be together, keep me in your heart. I’ll stay there forever.” I run my fingertips over the sharp, slanty handwriting. The lines are so confident, so self- assured.

  The script almost looks identical to mine.

  “Take it with you on your adventures.” She grabs my hand. “If there’s one thing your father loved, it was an adventure.”

  “I will.” I hug the book, vowing to take it wherever I go. After I graduate high school, I’m studying abroad in Australia. And I’m leaving with a bucket list a mile long. I definitely inherited more than just his handwriting. There are photos all over my room of me skydiving, and racecar driving, and of my beloved black and purple Yamaha. It feels like I’ve been riding since the minute I could walk.

  “You�
�re going to make a mark, just like him.” My mom stands, the emotional weight of the morning evident in her every feature. We look alike, heart-shaped faces and dark-brown hair, except I have blue eyes. His eyes.

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” She kisses my forehead. “Come down when you’re ready.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I assure her as she leaves the room. I gather up my birthday presents and lay back down on the bed, securing them against my chest, an outpour of emotion flooding my heart.

  I may not have had a pretty dress or a cake or even a party, but I can honestly say, this by far, is the best birthday I’ve ever had.

  Kayla

  I suppose you think I ran straight back into Dev’s arms the minute we laid Reese to rest. But that isn’t how it happened. Not in the least bit...

  Three years after Reese’s death

  I clean off the cake plates and messy plastic forks from the dining room table as Sam pulls down the purple streamers hanging from the ceiling.

  Entertaining eight rambunctious three-year-olds can really take it out of you. We stuff everything in the black garbage bag and exchange a relieved expression. We made it.

  It doesn’t matter how trying the afternoon was, though. I would do anything for that busy little girl who’s wearing her favorite lavender party dress, making a new mess of the toys I just picked up.

  “Good job, sweetheart.” Sam places an arm around me as we spy on Dev putting together Cici’s new Power Wheel in the family room. It doesn’t look like it’s being cooperative. He has the screwdriver in his mouth and a puzzled expression on his face.

  “C’mon, Dev. You made it through medical school. A child’s toy should be no problem,” Sam teases him. He looks up at us with only his eyes, not amused by her sarcasm in the least bit.

  “It’s a good thing you carry a gun.” I nudge her. “If looks could kill.” I move toward the entryway to carry out the trash.

  “He doesn’t scare me.” She laughs, just as I exit the front door.

  Once outside, I inhale sharply. The crisp January air stinging my lungs. It snowed last night, so a blanket of white dust covers the trees and front lawn. I revel in the prickly sensation of the cold. Sometimes I need the painful reminder. The painful reminder I’m not the one who died. I drop the bag in the can and prolong my return inside.

  My entire life changed in a blink of an eye.

  For a second time, a motorcycle claimed the life of someone I loved, and for a second time, I watched helplessly as they died in my arms. No amount of CPR could stop the impending end. I watched Reese take his last breath as I tried desperately to give him mine. My worst fear had materialized. The father of my child was taken way too soon. I became a widow at twenty-seven and lost all direction. For eight months I drifted, trying to come to terms, trying to find my way.

  I didn’t find clarity until the fateful day Cici came into my life, a small, determined little bundle who decided to make her grand appearance in the middle of a major snowstorm. That was fun. But the minute they placed her in my arms, she became my sole purpose. My brave new world.

  Reese in his infinite wisdom (or paranoia, take your pick) drafted a will shortly after we were married. He divided his fortune evenly between Dev and me. I never bothered to ask him about the bottom line of his bank account because it didn’t really matter, but when the lawyer handed over the documentation, I was steamrolled. The collective years of racing and endorsements proved obscenely profitable. And although I felt guilty accepting the money because we had only been married a few short months, I knew he would want his daughter taken care of. So besides buying a house for her to grow up in and a new, reliable car, I put the majority of the money in a trust fund. We have enough, and we’re happy.

  For the most part.

  I walk back into the house with a chill running down my spine. Everything seems to have fallen into place except one burdensome, unaddressed issue.

  I find Reese, or as we affectionately call her, Cici, crawling all over Dev as he persistently tries to tackle the plastic motorcycle.

  “Maybe you need to go back to medical school.” It’s my turn to poke fun as I peel Cici from his lap.

  “Not funny. I will figure this out.”

  “It looks like Fisher Price threw up in here.” I allude to all the plastic pieces spread out over the rug.

  “Everything has its place,” Dev muses, -knee-deep in concentration. It actually makes me laugh. He’s not even this focused at work.

  “Well, while you wrestle with the Power Wheel, I’m going to give the birthday girl a bath and put her to bed.”

  That gets Dev’s attention. He looks up at me and actually pouts. “That’s my job.”

  Technically, no, but Dev has been part of Cici’s life from the very beginning. He was even in the freakin’ delivery room. They share a bond no one can deny, and although it was incredibly painful to watch him hold her in the beginning, I couldn’t take that happiness away from him. Do you have any idea what it feels like to mourn a man and still see his face every single day? To watch his twin hold his child, and wish beyond any and all wishes it was him?

  To still love that same brother as much now as you did before? Even after everything. Entangled emotions like that can warp a person. They warped me.

  So I stepped back and closed myself off, allowing the love between Cici and Dev to grow while mine stayed fossilized in place.

  “You want to switch?” I offer a trade, the kid for the bike.

  “Yes.” Dev bounds to his feet, taking the little dark-haired beauty without hesitation.

  Cici squeals with excitement. He spoils her, and she knows she has a long playtime in the tub coming.

  “Godspeed,” I bless him as he walks off with her.

  “Same to you.” He tosses her in the air as he disappears up the stairs, her screams of enthusiasm echoing through the house. I drop to my knees, ready to tackle the cycle of death. It should be less stressful than bath time.

  “Want some help?” Sam offers, kneeling next to me.

  “Where were you?” I ask, reading over the directions.

  “Pulling the rest of the tape off the ceiling.” She holds up a wad.

  “Did we use that much?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Whoops.” I giggle.

  “Yeah, whoops.” She tosses it at me. “Do you want some help or not?”

  “Nah, I’m good. I know you have more exciting places to be.” I bump her shoulder with mine.

  She stifles an embarrassed smile. Sam has a boyfriend. First one in ages. Big, husky, state trooper. Mega manly and hot. And younger. She’s a total cougar.

  “No place is more exciting than here with you and my niece.”

  “Yeah, right!” I scoff. “I have eyes. I have seen Barron. And the way you two look at each other. Fire alarms go off.”

  “Sort of like the same way you and Dev look at each other?”

  I pause all movement, wishing she didn’t go there.

  “Dev and I have a history. But we’re friends now,” I inform her sullenly. “Besides, he has a girlfriend.” Some wench named Eileen. Total biker bunny trash not even worth the dirt on his tires.

  “Honey, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He has a girl to keep his bed warm. That man is waiting for you.”

  “No, he’s not,” I disagree, my heart squeezing.

  “Yes, he is. You can lie to yourself all you want. He’s wanted you from the very beginning. Only you, despite what transpired with Reese.”

  “He hurt me.” It’s a lame excuse.

  “You know what I think? He was hurting. I told you what the three of you were involved in was risky. I wish I was wrong. I cared about Reese, too, but don’t deny yourself love just because of what happened in the past. Look at what’s happening in the present.”

  I hate that she’s right. Dev devotes all his free time to Cici and me. He’d rather be with us than anyone else. And as much as I try to ignore it,
to tell myself the friend zone is enough, we both know it’s not. Because when we’re alone, the electricity is there. It never disappeared, even when Reese was alive. I always said I would love them both for the rest of my life, and it wasn’t a lie. I just don’t know how to cross back over that threshold. I have Cici to think about now, and how much she loves the man who bathes her and plays with her and spoils her rotten. Who reads Winnie the Pooh to her whenever she asks, which is all the damn time. I would never want to jeopardize what they have. But I don’t want to miss my window of opportunity, either. And it’s closing fast. I see it every day. He moves a little farther away from me and closer to the woman who warms his bed.

  Love two men. Marry one, but spend your life with the other. How twisted can one relationship possibly be? Ours turned into a labyrinth of emotion I’m still trying to navigate.

  “Think about what I said, okay?” Sam gives me a squeeze before she stands up. “I’m going to get laid.”

  “Ewww,” I joke, envious as hell. “At least someone is.”

  “I don’t have to be the only one,” she croons, turning her eyes skywards.

  I sit on my knees and watch her leave, tumultuously conflicted.

  Surprisingly, I put Cici’s bike put together in record time. Why was this so difficult for Dev? I just followed the diagrams. Men.

  With the extra time, I sit on the stairs and listen to him put Cici to bed. He reads two books and even sings as she flip flops to sleep. Bedtime is the worst. She has so much energy, it takes her forever to wind down. I feel his pain, but he seems a glutton for punishment because he’s the one who puts her down every time he’s here.

  I stare out the dark, front windows. It’s barely eight o’clock, but it feels like midnight. Our modest home is in a newer development, but still country enough—no streetlights or sidewalks, the closest neighbor a quarter of an acre away.

  I hear Cici’s door close, and Dev’s light footsteps descend the stairs.