by Ginger Scott
His head rolls to the side and his eyes flit up from my waist to my chin, then my eyes.
“He did abuse me. I was abused.” He blinks as he takes in the words uttered by his own mouth, in his own voice. This universal truth has always been a thing we simply accepted—that Dustin accepted. That’s different from actual acceptance, though. To really understand the impact of what abuse can do, you need to pair it with self-awareness. Dustin’s doing that now.
I nod, a dozen awful moments flashing through the back of my mind. Dustin getting slapped with an open palm out on the track in Tucson. Dustin coming over late at night to shower and wash the blood from his favorite T-shirt. Dustin burying his face in my pillow so he could scream without anyone asking him why.
“You were. And you didn’t deserve any of it.” A flutter passes through my chest, different from the nervous rush that happens before a kiss. I recognize this feeling all the same. It’s my resolve melting. It’s the bridge rebuilding. My need to love and care for Dustin is as great as his need to be loved and cared for. Our souls are reaching toward one another.
This time, there is no mistaking the twitch of Dustin’s hand. His palm inches from his thigh toward the center console, giving me a second, maybe two, to make my decision. My heart’s already abandoned its mission and has started to drum steadily in my chest, calling out to the broken parts inside Dustin. My head is caving quickly, too. The invitation unfolds on the console between us, Dustin’s wrist turning up and his palm opening, begging for its partner. I stare at it. I look on long enough for Dustin’s fingers to curl inward and form a loose, rejected fist. Before his hand recedes, though, I reach forward with both hands and unbend his fingers one at a time before pressing my hand flat against his, like two kids comparing hand sizes. He has me by a full knuckle.
I brush my palm against his and stop when my thumb meets the center of his hand, on his lifeline. I rub that spot lightly as I decide whether to travel up or down the wrinkle.
“I found out Trisha wasn’t my real mom.”
My decision is instantly so simple. Palm to palm, our fingers accordion together, and my other hand encloses Dustin’s completely before bringing it to my mouth. I press my lips against his dry knuckles, recognizing the scent of my pear hand soap.
I press his hand to my cheek and meet his eyes.
“How?” I ask.
He holds my gaze for what feels like several seconds, then licks his lips as he leans to the side enough to reach into his pocket. He pulls out another folded piece of paper, this one thicker than the one that said he had a right to the ashes we have in the trunk. With one hand, he presses the document flat and rotates it for me to read.
His birth certificate. Proof of his existence. The makers of his life.
Trisha Miller is nowhere to be found—not in real life, and not on this piece of paper.
“Alysha Solerno?” I’m both not sure I’m pronouncing that right, and have no clue who this person is.
“Apparently,” he utters. He spins the paper back toward him and runs a finger over the mystery woman’s name before refolding the paper and dropping it in the cup holder.
I lean in to match his angle, his hand still held close to my face, and as if no time has passed from when we last sat like this, our heads fall together in a peaceful reconciliation. I still hate him so much. I hate how he made me feel, how much I cried when he left, and how broken he left me before his return. But damn, do I love him just the same.
I love him too much.
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing there is to say.
He shrugs and a cool breath falls from his lips. His eyes are closed. I know it because I peeked before closing mine. I bring my other hand up to his face and run my thumb along his cheek, a day’s worth of beard shadowing his jawline.
“Where do you want to take Colt?”
Our noses touch when I speak.
Dustin shrugs again.
I guess he doesn’t have to be put to rest right now. Maybe not ever.
“Hey, Hannah?”
“Hmm?”
I feel his lashes kiss mine. I don’t dare open to look.
“Can we stay here a while? Like this?”
I surrender.
I nod, my forehead moving against his, and soon I’m lost to the soft brush of our noses and the palpable temptation numbing my lips.
“Yeah, Dustin. We can stay right here for as long as you want.” I tilt his head down and press my lips to the space between his eyes. Our hands unclasp, both of us suddenly wanting nothing more than to touch each other’s faces. We hold on to one another, a breath away from total forgiveness; a breath away from walking through the door to reclaim our past.
Teetering in two worlds, the before and the after.
For now, it feels like enough.
7
I forgot how good it felt just to hold her. To be held by her. If I could have ended our day there like that, I would have. But per his usual timing, Colt wasn’t having any of that.
As comforting as Hannah’s embrace is—was—the reality of that damn plastic bag full of Colt’s ashes was too loud in my head to feel the absolute peace that I want when alone with her. I won’t be able to rest until I get it. Hannah must know, too, because she’s been so willing to go along with me today.
As much as I want to throw Colt’s ashes in a dumpster, I’m pretty sure the universe would punish me tenfold. I don’t have to respect the man, which is good, because I never will. But I will respect the life—the one he gave me. My sperm donor.
The hiccup is Colt never really had a place. Other than his money and his high or buzz, I don’t think much mattered in that man’s life. The only place I could think of spreading his ashes into the wind was at Sunset Point. It’s basically a rest stop between our town and the Grand Canyon.
“You’re sure you don’t have anywhere to be? I know I’m asking a lot.” I glance to my right, where Hannah sits in the passenger seat, older but still here. This is how I always imagined life. I’ve had glimpses of our future, and she’s always in that seat right next to me. Only, I missed a lot of years of this. And this is fleeting. I realize that. Hannah might not stay. She probably shouldn’t. She has an entire life, a year left of college, and who knows . . . maybe an MBA to earn and some big world to conquer.
Some guy who will treat her right.
“You know I like it when you drive.” A rebellious smirk paints her lips and I hold her gaze, not looking at the straight and empty road ahead of me as I press the pedal and climb us over a hundred miles per hour.
Maybe I can have her now, have that life. Colt is gone. His legacy is dangerous, and there are probably plenty of people out there he left broken and screwed, but it’s not as if they’ll punish him by coming after his family. Not like he ever gave a shit about his family in the first place.
The wide open road before us, my hands find their favorite spot on the wheel and I punch the gas as we become a blur through the desert brush and jagged mountain cliffs. I glance to Hannah a few times, her eyes always on the road, her expression sure and steady. It was like that the very first time she rode with me.
Fearless.
I almost wish our landscape was dotted with challengers. I’d love to show her what I’m capable of now, dodging through narrow lanes and passing opponents. Peacocks love to strut their feathers. Mine happen to be high octane.
My eyes scan the sides of the road as we soar along the blacktop. I might be able to talk my way out of a ticket in Camp Verde, but not on the highways out of town. One day, though . . . people will know me. Everyone will know me. And when they do? I’ll come back to this stretch and assault the road with the same kind of speed, looking for cops to pull me over. They’ll want my autograph or a picture. And I’ll oblige.
I slow us down when I see the first sign for Sunset Point. Five miles away from the place where I intend to forget Colt forever. Something about it feels empty. I should hurt, maybe. Or grieve? But instea
d, my chest is hollow, my heart beatless.
Traffic is finally picking up. There’s a junction nearby for the interstate, and this is the only rest stop for miles. It’s the ideal place for that quintessential road trip photo, which explains the rows of RVs and family cars pulled up near the canyon. I veer off the highway an exit early, taking the less-traveled utility road that runs along the back side of the restrooms and visitor center. There aren’t parking spots over here, so I peel off into the dirt and tuck the Supra behind the brush, away from onlookers.
“Ready?” Hannah’s wide eyes take me in, glossed with worry that this moment is going to be hard for me. I can tell. She’s worn this same expression for me so many times. She’s always been my home, and maybe I took advantage of that, showed her too much pain. It’s only that I didn’t know where else to turn with it. When Colt made me feel small, she was the only thing that could remind me I was significant.
“Guess so,” I say with a casual lift of my shoulder.
I step out of the driver’s side and join Hannah at the back of the car to flip open the trunk. The bag has slid to the far corner, lodged where the carpet has started to pull away from the floor. It may as well contain leftovers or trash.
“Let’s do this,” I say, reaching in and grabbing the bag with my hand.
I shut the trunk and hold Colt at my side the way a construction worker holds his lunch break sandwich. Hannah shades her eyes with both of her hands and gazes out across the deep cavern a dozen feet away from us.
“He’s going to blow right back up in our faces if you toss him down there,” she says, her finger drawing a line across the horizon. She’s right. The wind gusts out here can be pretty wild. I didn’t count on that.
I chew at my lip and spin slowly in search of the next best thing. It needs to be appropriate for the job and that’s it. There is no meaning assigned to this. I’ll never come here to visit and stop to talk to my long lost dad. I’ll come here to take a piss on my way up to the Grand Canyon or Utah, which really is the most fitting tribute I could ever give Colt.
“There’s a wash over there. When the monsoons come, Colt can go for a ride.” I point to the dried gully carved through the rocks and sand. Hannah nods in agreement and we hike down through the boulders to the dry riverbed. The ground already looks like ash, so Colt should blend right in.
With a quick glance around to make sure nobody is watching, I break the seal on the bag and cup the bottom with my palm.
“You want to say something?”
I stare at Colt’s remains, give Hannah’s question some thought, and finally nod. She steps in close then weaves her arm through mine, hugging it close to her body. I’m glad she’s here.
The wind is steady but not strong where we are. It will carry him along the silt and scatter him for the coyotes to smell and the vultures to circle. Then, come late July, when the clouds build and the rain soaks the earth, he’ll be washed away for good. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch,” I say, tilting the bag and letting the contents pour into the air.
There’s nothing magical about this. No big release in my chest. The vise I’ve always felt around my neck? It’s still there. I don’t think I will ever outgrow it. Colt tattooed his hands around my throat. He seared his boots into my belly and his fists on my face. This is just a pointless ceremony to get rid of his remains. To follow through with what humanity expects. To respect life, but not the man.
My fist gobbles up the empty bag as Hannah’s cheek falls against my arm where she hugs it. My eyes deaden on the scene, the earth so dry and hungry for water. He’s already gone, his ashes the same color as the scorched sand and desert fauna. I allow my head to fall to the side, resting on top of Hannah’s, and I indulge in something selfish as my lips press a kiss on top of her head. Her hands squeeze my bicep harder and I breathe her in.
“Ready to go home?”
She nods against me. I shift so my arm circles her body and we walk, side-by-side, back to the car. On our way, I toss the empty bag in the trash can behind the bathrooms.
There isn’t any fanfare to it. No talk about what just happened or how I feel. Hannah knows better than to ask. She already knows the answer. This is nothing. And it’s done.
I roar the engine back to life and we crawl our way back to the highway where I let loose on the road once again. It’s different this time. I guess more melancholy. It isn’t anything to do with Colt, though. This feeling, it stems from knowing we’re going back, that Hannah will get out of this car and so will I. And once my business here is done, that’s it. I’ll go. She’ll stay.
My pocket has been vibrating since the rest stop. We’re halfway back to Hannah’s house, though, and I’d rather wait to deal with whoever is incessantly calling me when I get there. But it’s roughly the twentieth round of buzzing, and I can’t take the nagging anymore. I lean to the side and pull my phone from my pocket, handing it to Hannah.
“Can you see if whoever that is left me a message?”
“Sure,” she says, holding my phone in her palm and waiting for the passcode.
“Zero four one seven,” I say, forcing my eyes to stay on the road. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle seeing her face.
“My birthday,” she whispers.
“Uh huh.” I nod. I can feel her eyes on me, but I manage to avoid meeting them.
She types the sequence in and swipes to my list of calls.
“Who’s Virgil?”
I chuckle and nod, a little relieved it’s him and not the lawyer about Colt’s things or the landowner who is anxious for me to get the trailer off his property.
“He’s Tommy’s replacement. Well, sorta. He’s actually a pretty shitty mechanic, but he’s a lot nicer to me than your brother ever is.” I lean in and peek at the screen, noting the dozen or more messages, several of them over the last thirty minutes. Before I can tell Hannah to play the most recent one on speaker, my phone buzzes in her palm.
“I got it,” I say, taking it from her and swiping to answer before pressing the phone to my ear.
“Virg, hey. Sorry, I’ve been tied up all morning. What’s up?”
I brace myself for one of his usual code red phone calls. Virgil tends to panic when things don’t go smoothly. If a part we ordered comes in late, or worse, isn’t the right part at all? Virgil spins out. If the sponsor doesn’t like something I said in the local paper? Virgil goes into full-on crisis mode. And if I blow off a race? Well, I must be dead or have the plague. It couldn’t be that I just wasn’t interested in driving for two hours to bring home a fifty-dollar prize and a month’s worth of chicken wings.
“This is that call, Dustin. That. Call.”
For a moment, my ears mute. It’s beyond that rush of blood that comes with adrenaline, and it’s not the usual ringing from tinnitus after a dozen hours out on the track. I slow the car and pull over, stopping near a fruit stand with zero customers and run by an old man who seems to be selling nothing but jerky. Not a fruit to be found. I step out of the car, leaving the motor humming, and walk across the road, my fingers dug into my hair and the butt of my palm pressed against my disbelieving forehead.
“Don’t fuck with me, Virgil.”
“I wouldn’t fuck with you, Dust.”
Virgil doesn’t use that word. He wouldn’t say it unless the moment absolutely called for it—unless he wanted me to take him seriously.
I laugh out and spin, my gaze landing on Hannah, who is looking at me over the roof of the car as she stands on the chassis of the open door.
“When? Where?”
Hannah’s mouth hangs open, her eyes eager for details. I hope she can tell this isn’t bad news.
“That’s the thing. You’re in Arizona, and the Phoenix series is in two weeks. The fact you’re in town and could make it happen . . .”
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter. I run my hand down my face in disbelief.
“Gorman Truit had to pull
out,” Virgil continues.
A spot opened. My time is good enough. My wins are good enough. I’m in the area. Local. Colt did one thing right by me. That fucker died at the perfect time.
“You tell them yes?” I smile across the road at Hannah, holding my thumb up. She hops down from her perch and hustles to the other side, waiting while a station wagon passes by.
“I did, but they need to know your address. You’ve got some contracts to sign, and you probably need to get yourself representation. And you’re gonna need to smooth things over with Tulsa Wings since you have to take on Gorman’s sponsor, and—”
“I got it, Virg. I can handle it. I’ll text you my info and then you work on getting your ass to Phoenix.” I hang up before he has time to rattle off more to-dos. I’m too excited to handle his lists right now. I’m too much in shock.
“Well?” Hannah holds her palms out to her sides. I stare at my phone screen for another moment then slip it in my pocket before holding my palms to my face. Everything is numb. My skin, my bones, my veins. Can blood be numb?
“I’m racing at Series!”
Hearing my own voice utter that statement feels like a dream.
“Hannah, I’m fucking racing at Series!” I repeat.
Her eyes widen as the corners of her mouth tug up to meet them.
“Shut up!” Her hands cup her knees as she stares at me across the dotted yellow line.
“Han—” Tears prick at the corners of my eyes and I let them take over. A wave of triumph engulfs my chest and I shudder at the overwhelming reality of what is about to happen. Years of dedication, of sacrifice. My God.
I bite at my fist just as Hannah sprints across the road. I catch her when she leaps at me, and she pushes her hands into my hair, fisting it as she presses her forehead to mine and utters “yes.”