But twenty-five minutes had passed. Thirty. Forty. An hour. And still no Andy. Khai had paced back and forth, aggravated and impatient, sick, and he’d flipped through the pages of every book he could find until the corners were permanently upturned like ski slopes. When the phone had rung hours later, an incomprehensible knowing had claimed him. He hadn’t picked it up. He’d stood still, rooted to the floor as his mom answered the phone. When she’d gone pale and sank against the counter, she’d confirmed his suspicion.
“Andy’s dead.”
Khai’s head had gone quiet and crystal calm. No feelings, no pain, no more sick worry, just pure logic. In that moment, a pattern had arisen. Two points made a line, and you could extrapolate the slope and direction from there. His dad had left their family for a new one. Andy had died.
Bad things happened when he cared about people. But did he really care about them? Not if you compared his apparent level of caring to other people’s.
He was pulling the motorcycle helmet over his head and straddling the bike before he realized what he was doing. A turn of the key in the ignition. The deafening roar of the engine.
He shot out of the garage and sped down the street.
He didn’t plan to, but his hands guided him to Central Expressway. To the soaring pines. Sunlight in a cloudless sky. The pressure of the wind on his body. How many times had Andy experienced this? Hundreds maybe. Before everything had changed, Khai had planned to get a bike so they could do this together. In a way, they were doing it together now. The engine drowned out the crashing of his heart, but he felt it inside. He felt everything. Exuberance, fear, excitement, sorrow. Most alive when you might die.
He reached the place where three lanes merged into two, and a choking heat swelled over him. His lungs hurt, his muscles ached, his eyes stung. He brought the motorcycle to a skidding halt on the left shoulder and stumbled away, kicking up rocks and debris until he could brace himself against a pine tree.
This was the place. Andy had died right here. But there was no more caution tape, no more deep gouges on the road, none of that stuff. Sun, rain, and ten years of time had eroded the site of the accident, so it looked like anyplace. Just like time had dulled his emotions to the point where his brain could process them. It wasn’t too much.
But it was a lot. It was the death anniversary all over again. But now there was no Esme, and he was alone with this sadness. It dragged and crushed, swallowing him. He tore his helmet off so he could breathe, but the hot air suffocated him instead. He raked at his hair and rubbed at his face.
And
when he lowered his hand, his fingers came away wet. For a second, he thought it was blood, but the shiny fluid shone clear in the daylight.
Tears.
Not because of dust in his eyes or frustration or physical pain. These were sad tears for Andy. Ten years late.
He shook his head at himself. That took “delayed reaction” to an extreme. But he was an extreme kind of person.
His heart wasn’t made of stone, after all. It just wasn’t like everyone else’s. Even without the tears, he’d know. He recognized he’d been deluding himself for a while. Quan was right.
It was easier to keep people at arm’s length when it was for their own good instead of his. That way, he got to be a hero instead of a coward.
But now, he didn’t care if he was a hero or a coward. All he wanted was to be Esme’s.
When he checked his watch, he was dismayed to see it was 10:22 A.M. He’d been wasting time with an emotional episode—him, emotional—and the wedding started in thirty-eight minutes. He was going to be late, especially because it was impossible to find parking in San Francisco.
For a car.
A motorcycle, however . . .
He swiped his sleeve across his face, pulled his helmet back on, revved the engine, and exploded onto the streets. Central Expressway W, 85N, 101N. He’d never ridden a motorcycle on the freeway, and it was terrifying and exhilarating. There were no layers between him and the cars speeding at seventy, eighty, ninety miles an hour.
Most alive when you might die, indeed. He would have attempted a hundred miles per hour just for the hell of it, but he didn’t want to willfully push himself into that 0.07 percent.
Once he reached the long stretch of the trip, he mentally tackled the problem at hand: He had a wedding to stop.
And there was only one thing that would make Esme change her mind. Only one thing she wanted to hear.
Three small words.
And the last time he’d tried to say them, he’d almost gotten himself into a car accident. He might as well practice now since he was living on the edge.
“I . . .” He tried to get the next word out, but his mind and body stubbornly resisted. Ten years of training were difficult to undo in such a short period of time. He forced the word out. “Love.”
His heart jumped and started sprinting as fast as the motorcycle.
“I. Love.” He took a heavy breath and plowed ahead with determination. “I love. I love. I love. I love, I love, I love.” The wind stole most of the sound, but he still felt ridiculous talking to himself.