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For as long as I can remember, from March to October, my Saturday nights are usually spent at the track. Even after I had the boys, that’s the one thing I did with them on Saturday nights. They love it and eventually sweet-talked my mother, who ran the kitchen at the track, into letting them work the concessions with her.

It’s not like they do any hard labor. They hand people candy and chips when they order them. I too, worked the concession stands when I was a kid.

Believe it or not, it was my first job thanks to Mike. He hired me when I was sixteen.

Just like I believe in chores, I believe in kids understanding the value of having a job, showing up on time and doing your job right. Now if only I had a job, but that’s beside the point at the moment.

I’m onto something here. We’re there at the track around three, a little later than I had anticipated, but the gates don’t open until four so we’re technically still on time.

“Where’s Ridge?” Grady asks the very moment we step inside the gates of the fairgrounds where the track is.

“Probably around here somewhere,” I tell him. I close the gate behind us and lock it back up. There are about twenty people wandering around in the parking lot, and the pit lot is nearly completely full. In the distance, you can hear the hum of the engines, the smells of methanol and burnt rubber.

Cash breathes in deeply and smiles, a little bit. “When am I going to be old enough to start racing quarter midgets?”

I think I told you this, but my brother is a big-time sprint car racer. If you’ve never seen one of them, they’re an open wheel car with a wing on the top. Well, Cash, he thinks Uncle Tyler is pretty much the coolest person on the planet and wants to be just like him. My boys idolize my brother. I mean, I get it. He’s a badass racer in a sprint car. If you’ve never seen a sprint car, they scream mean. And if you’ve never heard the sound of a sprint car running wide open on a half-mile dirt track, you’re not living if you ask me.

Austin doesn’t want Cash racing though. Naturally, because Austin was never interested in racing, his sons can’t be. It sucks, really. There’s nothing worse than your kids wanting to do something, and one parent is against it.

“We’ll talk about it again soon, bud.” I ruffle his hair as we walk toward the ticket booth where I’m working tonight. I’ll be helping in the concession stand with Tori and my mom later tonight, but I promised my dad I’d do tickets first.

As you can see, it’s a family affair here at the speedway. Even though Mike owned the track, my family has always been heavily involved.

Cash stops walking. “Am I going to be able to or is dad never going to allow it?”

“I don’t know. We’re not talking about this tonight.”

His precious yet defiant eyes find mine. “That means no.”

I smack the side of his head lightly. “Lose the attitude, little man.”

Cash hates to be bullshitted. Grady, he’ll go along with whatever you tell him to do. He’s that kid that if you said, let’s go jump off a bridge, he’d be terrified, but he’d do it regardless of the consequences because you asked him to.

Cash, he wants to know why, and then why leads to another why and all the details. What bridge? How high is it? What’s the probability of breaking a bone?

Every. Single. Detail.

Even after you’ve talked until you’re blue in the face about everything that can or might happen, he’s still not convinced. He once asked me to draw him a map to the grocery store because he wanted to know the exact streets it took to get there so he could count the steps. We literally live three blocks from the only grocery store in town.

Can you tell we’re a lot alike? Maybe in different ways, but I see a lot of me in his actions.

And don’t, under any circumstances, tell Cash maybe. To any question he asks. He’ll blow up on you and say, “Maybe is not an answer. Just say no.”

He’s the weirdest kid I know, and I love him for it.

Keeping step with me through the entrance, Cash shakes his head. “I don’t understand why he’ll let me play football and not race.”

I spot my dad when we’re near the ticket booth. The boys do too and go running after him. “Papa!”

“Hey, guys! ’Bout time you got here.”

I smile when he picks them both up. I have no idea how he does it. I can’t even carry them to bed anymore. I nod to the ticket booth when I realize it’s locked. “Do you have the keys?”

Dad shakes his head. “No, Ridge does.”

“Oh, okay.” My heart thuds in my ears. Damn you, heart, stop that. “Where is he?”

“I think he’s in his trailer.”