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“A broken person wouldn’t have this spark of life that you have,” he spoke fiercely. “You’re just lost, like so many others, trying to find your way in this world. Trying to find who you are.”
“Who am I, Trace?”
He grinned. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
He stepped away, going back to work on the old Subaru.
“You were talking in the past tense,” I noted.
“Huh?” He looked over his shoulder at me, his brows knitting together.
“About your dad. You said he was a mechanic.”
“Oh, right,” Trace mumbled, taking a deep breath, and bracing a hand against the side of the car. “He died four years ago. Motorcycle accident. Truck didn’t see him,” he shrugged, his eyes dark. “I used to have a motorcycle,” he mused, “but after that, I haven’t been able to go near one.”
I felt the pain and the sadness that accompanied what Trace was telling me. Obviously, he had been close to his dad, and the loss was still hard on him. I wanted to hug him, just wrap my arms around him and tell him that everything would be okay, but I wasn’t sure if he would be okay with me doing that. So, instead I stayed where I was, sitting on the stack of old tires.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “I can tell you were close with him.”
“He was my best friend,” Trace smiled sadly. “He was the greatest dad anyone could ever ask for, and he was taken away too soon. I was angry for a long time,” he sighed, and I was surprised that he was talking so openly about this. From his stance, and the way his eyes had darkened, I knew this was a difficult topic for him. “I didn’t like being that angry. It made me hurt the people I was closest too, the ones that mattered the most.”
“How did you stop being angry?” I questioned, wondering if I could ever get rid of the anger bottled up inside me that was caused by my dad.
He pondered my question for a moment. “The hate I felt was eating me alive. I didn’t like the person I was becoming. I didn’t like being someone my mom and grandparents were disgusted by. I decided that I wasn’t going to be that guy anymore. My dad didn’t raise me to act like that. He raised me to be a good man and I was spitting on his memory. In order to cope with my dad’s death, I lashed out at those closest to me. I did some horrible things, Olivia. Things I’m ashamed of,” he shook his head, his eyes far away in another time and place. “I realized that I needed to be the man I was before, the man my father knew and respected, in order to truly heal. I decided that I couldn’t let my pain consume me anymore. My dad wouldn’t have wanted that for me. So, here I am,” he pointed to his chest, “being me.”
I smiled. “Well, I like who you are.”
“Good,” he grinned, grabbing one of his many tools. “And, in case you were wondering, I like who you are too,” he winked.
My heart soared as Trace turned back to the car.
I hated that I was so pathetic that only a few kind words from him sent my heart racing.
“Done,” Trace announced, a few minutes later, lowering the car.
I hopped off the tires, and made my way outside, leaning against the building as I waited for him.
He parked the car he’d been working on, outside, and closed the garage door.
I followed him upstairs to his apartment.
Since I felt more comfortable this time, I studied the place as Trace showered.
It was surprisingly clean and tidy for a guy. There wasn’t anything sitting out that could be considered clutter…unless you counted the bowl of Skittles.
The apartment had an industrial feel with high ceilings and exposed beams and pipes. The back wall and the wall across from the couch were painted an ocean blue-gray color, while the other two walls and kitchen area, were painted beige.
I made my way over to the window, the wood floors creaking under my steps.
I expected to look out, and see a junkyard of old cars out back, but was pleasantly surprised to see woods, and even a small creek. I was sure, that during the summer when the leaves were green, it was breathtaking.
Turning around, I took in a round metal column that separated the kitchen from the living room.
The apartment was nice…homey even. It was the last thing you’d expect from a twenty-two year old guy.
I started over to the couch, my feet sinking into a plush rug, as I waited for Trace to get ready for…whatever it was we’d be doing.
The door to the bathroom opened and steam billowed out, followed by Trace, with only a small gray towel wrapped around his waist.
