Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“Wow.” I didn’t have a better reply than that. I couldn’t say as anyone, even Maxine, had been that direct with me before.
A dusky flush spread up Denver’s neck. “Should have stuck with the muffins.”
“No, I like honesty.” I managed a small smile just for him. I relaxed in my seat more, letting myself enjoy the scenery and the breeze whipping through the truck. “And this is helping. The smell of the trees and sunshine.”
“Good.” Denver turned onto another curving back road, not forcing conversation, letting me soak up the sun and clean smells. As he navigated another bend in the road, I spotted a familiar-looking logging road.
“Hey, is that our spot?” I pointed.
“We have a spot?” Despite sounding confused, Denver indulgently slowed before turning onto the bumpy, unpaved road.
“The one where we first kissed?” I gestured around us. Yeah, this was the place. My attention had been all on Denver, but the hidden cove of trees was seared into my memory, right along with the taste of his lips.
“Ah. I guess it is.” Denver flushed deeper, like I’d called him out on some sentimental secret. But he knew. He was remembering too. A fact made clear by how he glanced at my mouth before looking out the window. “There’s a neat view of a creek a way up the hill. Thought maybe you might want to sniff some more air.”
“I do.” Surprisingly, I was eager to exit the truck. Bone tired, every muscle hurting and joints creaking, yet there was nowhere I’d rather be than following Denver up the faint little trail leading away from the logging road. The more we walked, the looser my whole body felt, lips included. “The nose is a funny thing. I can wash off gasoline, oil, antifreeze, blood, guts. A little soap and some scrubbing, and it’s all good as new.”
“Is it?” Denver paused near a huge stump, weathered and beaten.
“Maybe.” Bending, I ran a hand over the rough wood. Once upon a time, the whole forest had been full of trees wider than my mom’s dining room table with all the leaves added in. “Okay, no. It’s not.” Denver’s quiet steadiness and us being the only humans for miles around made me way more truthful. “Because I can still smell it. See it. Hear it.”
Denver didn’t say anything, only nodded as he regarded me with watchful eyes.
“And usually, I’m good at washing it all down the drain, leaving it behind after a hard shift.” I tried to sound resigned, maybe echo a bit of Denver’s steadiness. But then he touched me. A hand on my upper arm. And I broke. “I did my best, like the guys said at breakfast. I did my best, and that used to be good enough for me to sleep. Move on to the next call.”
“But something changed.” Denver didn’t ask as much as deduced the truth, which made it far easier to continue.
“Declan got a motorbike.” I closed my eyes, seeing my kid back in the tween years, all gangly elbows and knees and unbridled enthusiasm. He had my red hair and Maxine’s intelligent eyes and long limbs. “We took him to a motocross race up north of Seattle the year he turned ten. Day trip. Buddy from the firehouse knew someone racing. Never thought Declan would come away with his passion in life, but that’s kids for you.”
“Yep.” Denver moved to sit on the stump. “And now he races?”
“He does.” I sat beside Denver, feeling like I’d removed two hundred and fifty pounds of gear. “And he’s damn good at it. Turned pro a little after he was seventeen, racked up the points, made it into the big races in record time.”
“But you worry.”
“Of course I do.” I bit my lip, intending to leave it at that, but the words tumbled out anyway. “But not so much about Declan racing—they’ve often got medics standing by, and he’s got all the latest safety gear. No, I worry about the after-parties, the hard living, the collection of motorcycles, and his fearless disregard for the laws of physics and speed limits.”
“A lot of people party hard in their early twenties and make it through.” Denver’s tone was pragmatic but not unkind. “I’m sure that’s not what a dad wants to hear though. You want him safe.”
“Exactly. And the thing is, he’s a great rider.” Despite the heaviness of the topic, I smiled as I often did when Declan’s name came up. In my head, he was three, racing cars across the carpet, then eleven on his first dirt bike, then fourteen, hoisting an amateur trophy, and now, old enough to share a beer and a laugh with, and still my kid. “Declan is a total natural like all the press says about him. But even the best riders in the world don’t stand a chance against motor vehicles that don’t care about sharing the road.”