“What the fuck?” she hisses.
“No one else was on the road,” I say.
“There’s a speed limit for a reason, jackass.”
“But my truck can go fast, so...” I’m waiting for her to get my point, and judging from the way she huffs and throws herself back into the seat, she got it—loud and clear.
“Whatever. Why are we here?” The tremble in her voice doesn’t escape my notice. I know exactly how hard this is for her—I’ve been here before and wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Regardless, it has to be done.
“Figured we could ride out and check on everything, maybe make some decisions regarding your dad’s shop.”
“Do we have to?” She fidgets in her seat, looking every bit as pained as I feel.
I pull to a stop in front of the garage bays. “We’re already here; might as well.” The steadiness of my voice covers the wretchedness working its way through me. While I want to help her, and know she needs to do this, causing her even an iota of pain was not on my to-do list.
She unbuckles and throws open her door. “Fine.”
I follow behind her, waiting quietly while she fishes the key out of her purse. I knew coming here was going to be hard, but it may be more so than I anticipated. This shop is her dad’s life’s work. She practically grew up here. Seraphine was her dad’s pride and joy, but these cars, this business, it was his passion. One I know he passed onto her.
Even if she doesn’t openly show it, this big metal building means as much to her as it did to him.
Once inside, Seraphine hesitates. I don’t rush her. If she needs to stand in the pitch-black dark and gather herself, then that’s what we’ll do.
I can vividly recall how hard it was to sift through Imani’s things—especially her art studio. It was gut-wrenching to sell the space, to sell her pieces; it felt like I was giving little bits of her soul to the highest bidder.
Right as my eyes finally adjust to the dark, she flips the switch for the lights, nearly blinding us both. Bright fluorescent bulbs illuminate the garage, bathing the space in light. We’re both quiet at the sight before us.
Everything remains untouched. Tools are littered about, there’s a car on the lift, and at least two cars mid-restoration. It’s as though Dave went out for lunch and never returned.
I place a hand on the middle of her back, rubbing soothing circles. “It’s okay to cry, mariposita.”
No sooner than the words leave my lips, she’s full-out bawling.
“C’mere.” I spin her to face me and wrap my arms around her, pulling her into my chest. I rock us both back and forth, murmuring words of comfort as she lets it all out.
It probably makes me twisted, but some macho part of me wants to roar in triumph over the way she’s willing to be vulnerable with me. Seraphine’s this fascinating mixture of weakness and strength. She’s fragile, yet made of steel. She’s broken, yet a warrior—even if she doesn’t yet know it.
God knows how long passes before her tears dry and she pulls away from me. “I’m so sorr—” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Do not apologize. This place is sacred to you and visiting it is hard.”
She sniffles as she nods. “Honestly, it’s surreal to be here. It literally looks like he left in the middle of the day—except instead of coming back, he…” She trails off as a fresh round of tears start.
“Why, Mateo? Why did he leave?”
I pull her back into my arms and press my lips to her temple. The move’s as instinctual as breathing. “Shh, mariposita. He didn’t want to leave you.”
“He clearly did,” she insists.
I spy a workbench and guide us to it, settling her in my lap. “You know deep down that’s not true. Your dad loved you. More than anything else, he loved you.”
“Then why did he leave?”
A million different answers race through my brain. People are always so quick to call those who end their own lives selfish, even though it’s rarely the case.
“Honestly? We may never know. But him ending his life in no way negates his love for you. You hung the moon for that man, Seraphine. I can’t begin to understand how alone and betrayed you must feel, but please don’t doubt your father’s love for you.”
She sighs and lays her head back against my chest. “It’s hard, though. Why would he leave if he loved me?”
“I can’t answer that. But I think… it was more about him than it ever was you.”
“You think so?”
“I really do.”
She shrugs noncommittally before shrugging out of my embrace and standing. “Everything’s the exact same,” she murmurs, “and yet totally different.”
I rise and follow behind her as she walks over to a jaw-dropping 1970 Plymouth Barracuda. The beast of a ride caught my eye the minute the lights came on, but it wasn’t the time.