Page 5

EMMY

The wind off the bay smells like mixes salt air with cut grass. Sharp. Familiar.

It’s early May, and the front yard is half-thawed from winter but still hasn’t remembered how to be soft. The dirt bike stands stiff and proud on its kickstand. It looks almost too good there—pristine, the paint still bright, chain gleaming. It’s in perfect condition. Not a scratch.

Which is why the memory of what it did to me still feels like a betrayal.

Last summer, I pushed too hard. Lost my balance. The exhaust header kissed the inside of my calf and didn’t let go. Third degree. Full thickness burn. The kind of wound that takes months to forgive, and longer to forget.

I was off the bike for the rest of the summer.

Even after I healed, I couldn’t climb back on. It wasn’t just the pain—it was the weight. The way the bike felt like it didn’t want me. Too tall, too heavy. I never felt in control. So I sold a few things, saved every spare dollar, and bought the Surron. A hundred pounds lighter. Electric. Safe.

No heat. No noise. No burns.

And now the old bike is up for sale. Clean and ready. But not mine anymore.

The buyer’s late.

Dad’s in the garage, just a few feet away, doing everything in his power to make sure I know this sale doesn’t have his blessing. He’s not looking at me, not exactly, but I can feel him hovering. A presence of disapproval, just close enough to sour the air.

He didn’t want me to sell it. Said it was his now. That I owed him. He’d yelled—really yelled—when I told him I’d already listed it.

“You don’t think I could use that thing? After everything I’ve done for you?”

But I need the money more than he needs another toy to let rust.

The sound of tires crunching up the driveway makes my spine straighten. A pickup, older, maybe late 2000s. The buyer. Mid-forties. Ballcap. Worn jeans and confidence like a cologne. He sizes me up before he even says hello.

“You're the one selling?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. That’s her.”

He walks a slow circle around the bike, makes a few hmm sounds like he’s doing me a favor just by being here. Kicks the back tire. Scoffs at the fender.

“I’ll give you $1,200,” he says finally, hands on his hips like he expects me to thank him.

“I listed it for two.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “But you’re not gonna get that. Not for this.”

I hesitate. I feel my father’s breath behind me, even though he hasn’t said a word. Just that tight little laugh earlier when I wheeled the bike out front.

The buyer’s looking at me like I’m about to fold.

And for a second, I almost do. I feel myself pulling inward, bracing—not just for the lowball offer, but for the voice behind me, the breath I’ve learned to dread.

The same way I shrink when Dad’s in the room.

Like I’m already wrong just for standing here.

I’m halfway into that old, familiar crouch when I hear it—a new sound, deep and clean, cutting through it all like a thread of calm.

Low, steady. A classic V8 rumble. Not like the pickup. Deeper. Smooth as midnight, but with a bite behind it.

A car turns the corner at the end of our street.

Black. All black. The body, the grille, the trim. Even the wheels. It looks like something built in secret and meant to disappear just as easily. 1970 Chevelle. The kind of car you don’t see—you feel first. Every inch of it is purposeful. Quiet and exacting.

And behind the wheel—him.

I freeze.

The sun catches his sunglasses, the curve of his jaw, the way his hand drapes over the steering wheel like it belongs there. My heart thunders before I can stop it. Not because of the car.

Because I thought maybe he wasn’t real.

He drives by without slowing.

I don’t breathe until he’s gone.

The buyer is still talking. Something about the engine, or how much work it’ll need, even though I know it needs nothing. I’m nodding, but I’m not listening.

Because the Chevelle is back.

Turning around. Easing up the road again.

And this time, it pulls into the driveway.

Dad notices. Straightens from where he’s been leaning in the garage doorway. His face shifts—performative interest blooming across his features. He wipes his hands on a rag that doesn’t need it, already moving toward the car before it’s fully stopped.

I already know what he thinks.

He thinks the car is here for him.

He’s a mechanic. Has been for decades. That sound, that body—he’s probably been dreaming about something like it since high school. And now it’s parked in front of his house.

The Chevelle rolls to a stop. Engine idling low. Cal steps out.

Black t-shirt. Fitted jeans. Boots. Sunglasses still on. Calm like nothing could surprise him. Like he expected to be here.

My father is already half a step toward him, voice bright and too loud. “Beautiful ride you’ve got there. Is that a ’70?”

Cal’s mouth lifts, barely. Polite. Nothing more. “Yeah.”

Dad’s grinning like he’s just been given something. Keeps talking. Asking about the engine, the build, the tires. Cal nods once or twice, offers a few clipped answers. His eyes, though—

They skip the car. Pass over my father.

And land, steady and unshaken, on me.

And when he finally steps around Dad, it’s not abrupt. Just intentional. Quiet and clean.

He walks straight to where I’m standing beside the bike and the buyer. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands beside me. Unmoving. Present in a way that steadies me more than any words could.

The buyer blinks. Eyes Cal’s frame, his face, the stillness he brings with him.

Then he looks back at me. “Look, I can do $1,300, but I’d be doing you a favor—”

Cal turns his head. Not aggressive. Just a small tilt.

“The price,” he says, voice low, even, “is firm.”

Silence. Real silence. The kind that’s not just quiet, but clear.

The buyer hesitates. Looks between us. Back at the bike.

Five minutes later, the bike is strapped into the back of the pickup. I can still feel the warmth of Cal’s hand on my elbow from when I tried to help load it and he stopped me with a shake of his head.

The cash is folded in my back pocket. But it's not the money I keep thinking about—it's the feel of his hand on my elbow, steady and sure. He didn’t speak, didn’t have to. Just that brief touch, offering support without question, reassurance without pressure. A quiet signal: I wasn’t on my own.

He walks right back to where I’m standing beside the spot where the bike used to be, buyer and truck already gone.

He glances toward my father again. Gives the smallest nod.

Then he turns fully to me.

“You alright?”

And I know it’s not about the sale.

It’s about me.

“Thank you,” I say, by way of an answer, my voice low. “He was… a lot.”

Cal nods once. Like it’s nothing. Like stepping in was as natural as breathing.

I don’t even realize my hands are shaking until I clasp them together in front of me, trying to still the movement. He notices. Of course, he notices.

“You sure you’re alright?”

I nod, but it’s half-formed. A reflex.

He glances toward the road, then back to me.

“If you ever sell anything again,” he says, calm but unmistakable, “don’t do it alone.”

It’s not a suggestion. Not really. It lands somewhere between a boundary and a vow; one drawn not with words, but with the way his body angled just slightly toward mine, like a shield I didn’t ask for but somehow still needed. It shouldn’t warm me. But it does.

Just like when he told me not to ride after dark.

After another pause, as though to let it sink in, he adds: “Or call me.”

He doesn’t look at my father. Not even once. Like he already understands the undercurrent, like he’s mapped the terrain with one sweep of his gaze and decided it doesn’t need his attention.

He turns toward his car, opens the door, then pauses. Reaches into the glove compartment. Pulls out a small, folded piece of paper.

He hands it to me.

A number. That’s all.

I take it. Carefully.

Then he looks at me one last time. Steady, searching, like he’s leaving something behind without needing to say it.

Not smiling.

Just seeing.

Like he’s already read everything about this day and chosen to remember it exactly as it was.

He gets in the car. The engine growls low and smooth.

Then he’s gone.

But the imprint of him lingers like pressure in the air, like a presence my body can’t forget even after he’s gone.

And so does the piece of paper, warm in my palm.

It’s not just warmth from the sun or the heat of the engine—it's the warmth of knowing someone saw what I couldn’t say.

That number feels like more than a handful of digits.

It feels like a lifeline. Like a quiet offer of reassurance I didn’t know I needed, but don’t want to be without.