“Well are ya’?”
“I thought I was.”
“And now it’s gone and…”
“And now I know what I don’t have and what I really want.” Too bad I’ve fucked it all away.
“So let me ask you again, what are you gonna do about it?”
“Pop, I can’t, you don’t understand. There’s more going on and I’ve messed it all up too badly.”
Pop sits back in his chair and stays silent while he kills off his drink. I know better than to get another refill for myself. I don’t want to hear that lecture, too. “Aye, I’m just an old man, I wouldn’t understand,” he rolls his eyes at me.
“Fucking hell,” I huff, this isn’t over.
“I may not know everything but I’m the one who was beside you at every race since you were a lad. I know the type of horse shit that goes on, that has always gone on. And I know how my own bloody son drives!” He fumes at me, his face getting red.
My head jerks up, I search his eyes.
“I’m old but I’m not stupid,” he answers my question.
Fuck. He knows about Celeritas. He knows enough, anyway. I drop my head in shame. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
“You’re a bloody eejit, is what ya’ are,” he waves his hand at me again and looks off into the distance.
“What?” I’m not necessarily debating that I’m in idiot, but hearing it from him is surprising, still.
“You want to make us proud, eh?”
I look away and swallow hard. I’m a grown-ass man and will not tear up in front of my pop. I nod.
“Then be happy. Your mum and I don’t care two hoots about how ya’ do it. Never did. If you wanted to be a ballerina, I would have made ya’ a dress. But you wanted a kart so that’s what I built.”
I rub my eyes and can’t stop a chuckle with the thought of Pop sewing pink tutus. Mum would have loved it, though, stuck in that house with the three of us boys.
We sit quietly for a long time watching the fire. Millions of thoughts race through my mind.
Eventually Pop stands. “Well, then come on. I need help fixing the tractor and I want to get the yard mowed before it rains again.”
I don’t know why he won’t just let me pay someone to mow the fucking yard. Or let it go feral for all I care. He says it gets him out of the house and I don’t argue because I suppose he is bored being forced into early retirement because of me. He does seem to enjoy the behemoth riding tractor, which, as a man, I can support.
We make our way to the garage and Pop enters the alarm code and raises an overhead door, flips the lights on. My championship car is in here, wrapped in her cover. A couple of supercars sit inside too, covered in an inch of dust, the only clean one is the McLaren Mallory drove up and down the road. The damn Harley is here, resting on the custom hydraulic motorcycle storage rack.
I’d give anything to pull it down and ride all over the Hebrides with her again. Not do anything but drive along the coastline and feel her against me again, feel her trusting me to take care of her and keep her safe. But I can’t even offer her that now because her trust is gone.
She’s countries away working for Digby DuPont and she’s doing it because her dream is still alive and she’s fighting for it. I feel like the biggest piece of shit on the planet.
“Grab a pry-bar and come help me get the deck off this thing, eh?” Pop has made his way to a far corner of the garage where he’s got the big diesel tractor and mowing deck pulled inside.
I open a toolbox and grab the pry-bar and the socket set I know we need and shuffle over to him. “What’s my old kart doing down?” I pause in step and ask him.
“Oh, I was just tinkering the other day and thought I’d see if it still fired up.”
“Does it?”
“Dunno, didn’t get around to it before your Mum called me home.” He goes back to leaning over the tractor deck and starts loosening bolts.
My old kart is down on a work stand, rusty exhaust pipe and the plastic side pods sticky from garage grease and grime. It’s been hanging on the wall ever since I bought this place and finished the garage. It was the first vehicle I made a spot for in here. Now the hand-painted #15 on the front and sides is faded and the plastic cracked.