Page 90 of Dirty Mechanic

Lightning forks in the distance. My stomach turns. I shift gears, push harder on the gas. My mind won’t shut up. I can still see her face and those wide, wrecked eyes. The tears that came in a flood I didn’t know how to catch.

You… You forged divorce papers?

Christ.

It’s not just the lie that kills. It’s the silence. The choice she made to keep me in the dark while I built our life on sand. I gave her everything. My home. My name. My heart.

And she was still married to him.

I slam on the brakes and pull off to the shoulder, tires spitting gravel as I twist the wheel and turn off onto an old service road. I know where I need to go now.

The graveyard.

The storm’s moved east by the time I hit the ridge, but the roads are still slick, the sky still low and heavy. I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other clenched in my lap. Rain clings to the windshield in lazy streaks now, like the weather’s too tired to rage anymore.

Unlike me.

I kill the engine and sit there a minute, rain pattering the roof of the truck, before I swing open the door.

The cemetery gates creak when I push through them. Mud sucks at my boots as I cross to her. The place is soaked, grass flattened, and puddles blooming in the dips between headstones. But the air’s still. Too still. Rain dripping with flatness.

A rusted wind chime that always sounds like a lullaby in the wind calls out in song. I find her grave like I always do. No matter how long I’m away, my feet remember.

The chime sways like it recognizes me. The bouquet from last week is soaked and sagging.

Sarah Mae Waters.

Beloved daughter. Cherished mother.

Gone too damn soon.

My stomach twists when I see it. The tiny apple blossom pin Misty left last spring is still tucked into the soil, a little rusted but holding strong. I crouch and run my thumb over her name, tracing the grooves in the stone like they’ll give me answers.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. The words hit the air and vanish. Like always. “Been a little busy... accidentally committing felonies.”

I kneel, hands flat on earth and rain soaking through my jeans.

"I messed up," I whisper. "Again."

The words burn going down. Like whiskey and guilt.

"You’d hate all of this. The lying. The secrets. The goddamn legal mess of it. But you’d like her. Annabelle. She’s stubborn. Brave. A little broken, just like I was. Just like you."

I press my palm to the earth, as if it could absorb the ache in my chest.

"She forged divorce papers, Sar. Lied about it. Married me, knowing it might not be real. And yet..." I look up at the sky. "I still want her. Even now."

The wind stirs the trees, and for a second, I swear, I hear her laugh. The one she used to aim at me when I overthought shit. The one that said, “You already know what you’re gonna do. So just do it.”

I chuckle under my breath. "I know. I hear you. But it still fucking hurts."

I stay there until the cold seeps into my knees, until the pain and guilt stop clawing quite so hard. Then I go back to the car and drive toward the bakery.

Everything’s closed except for Valley’s Delights. I park in front of Honeycrisp Pies, and kill the engine. The sign swings on its bracket in the wind, the painted letters glistening with rain. The air still smells like flour, burnt sugar, and memory. I stare at that sign like it’s the goddamn North Star guiding me home.

I can almost see her inside. Flour on her cheek. That little crinkle between her brows when she’s deep in dough. Her laugh echoing off the tiles as she teases Blake. The air thick with butter and cinnamon and something sweeter—hope, maybe.

It hits me then.