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Damn, how long has it been?It’s like he can read my thoughts.
“Your mom and I’ve missed you these last years, kiddo. A couple of days at Christmas or Thanksgiving is not enough time,” he tells me.
“I know, and I’m trying. I can stay the week at Ray’s place downtown before I make my decision,” I say, following him to the farthest garage on the left.
“I’m glad. I like the thought of you being in town. I know I promised I wouldn’t pressure you, and this is something we wanted to do. Your mom and I talked about it, and even Layne said it was okay. We,” he says, his voice a little unsteady, “wanted you to have this.” He opens the garage door. When the light falls into the garage, Ronnie’s motorcycle is standing in the middle, the Harley shining like it did when he still drove it around town.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, a tidal wave of emotions rushing through me.
“Ronnie would have wanted you to have it,” he says, his voice kind.
My brother worked on this bike for years, building it from the ground up until he got the beast put together from parts he collected from all over the country. This is all him, memories and smiles. All the moments we spent together wrapped up in chrome.
“I can’t,” I tell him, letting my palm glide over the black leather seat.
“He would have wanted you to have it. It gave him so much joy, Acie. He loved to take you out onto the open road. You guys shared so many great adventures, from the Badlands to Joshua Tree. He lived, kid, truly lived. I want you to do the same.”
“Hi, honey,” Mom says, walking up to us. I run to her, burying my face in her neck. I let out a strangled sob, and she hugs me even tighter, running her fingers through my hair like she used to do when I was a kid. She smells like strawberries and vanilla; the familiar scent of her shampoo feels like I’m being a child again, when we spent hours doing our make-up and trying on her modeling outfits.
“Mom,” I whisper.
She kisses my forehead. “Hi, baby,” she says, brushing her long blonde hair out of her face.
“Dad told me you guys want me to have Ronnie’s bike,” I say, turning to the FXR.
She grabs my dad’s hand as I walk over to the bike, letting my fingers slide over the handlebars.
“We missed you, baby,” she tells me.
“I missed you too, Mom,” I confess, and I did. I’ve missed this place, missed Aspen more than I want to admit. It only took an asshole snowboarder to open my eyes.
A deep woof rings out, and I turn as all the dogs catapult into the garage. My doggo isn’t far behind. “Reb,” I yell when the tiny border terrier waggles his tail. “I thought Layne was watching him?”
“Yeah, but he thought he would like to spend time with his cousins, so he brought him over last night.”
I kiss his little head and smile when he starts jumping up and down. “Goofball.” I smile, running my fingers through his fur before saying hello to the other dogs—two large German Shepherds named Bob and Dylan, Slash the Wolfdog, and a small Chihuahua named Peanut, my mom rescued from the local shelter. At the rate my mom keeps rescuing dogs, I’m not surprised if they get a couple more. They also have four cats, each named after one of the Beatles. I laugh as the dogs sprint outside to play on the grass near the stream running by the house.
“Reb is happy here, isn’t he?” I ask, leaning against the bike.
Dad snorts. “Yeah, he digs all the other dogs. He even befriended Lennon, the cat, and that fucker doesn’t like anyone.”
“Norman,” my mom warns. He grabs her by the waist and gives her a chaste kiss on her lips. My mom and dad are still madly in love with each other. It hasn’t always been easy, not with him first riding and then starting the business with barely any money. My mom financed his first few years with her model earnings, being on the road until she had Layne, Ronnie, and a couple of years later, me.
At the thought of Ronnie, tears rush to my eyes. Mom sees it and reaches out to pinch my hand.
“He loved his bike,” she says, wiping at her eyes. I quickly turn around, not wanting to show them my tears.
“Kiddo,” Dad whispers, hugging me tight as my body starts to shake.
“I’m sorry,” I sob. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you sorry about?” he asks, wiping my hair out of my face.
“For not saving him,” I cry, wanting to hug the bike to get a glimpse of the brother I loved. The boy who raised me, who taught me what it’s like to be fearless, to take a chance. And now I know by running away, I wasn’t honoring his memory, but destroying not only myself but all the lessons he taught me.
“Oh, baby,” Mom says, reaching for my hand.
“Kiddo, it wasn’t your fault.”
