Page 42 of Give Me What You Will

Frankie sucked in a nervous breath, masking it with an enthusiastic fist pump before climbing into the vintage car. He revved the engine to life. “I love that fuckin’ sound. I’m gonna miss her.”

Sammy gazed at him from behind his tinted lens. “You already got a buyer?”

He hesitated and nodded quickly. “Yeah. He’s from Queens. Sold the last car to him.”

“Lucky you.”

He gritted his teeth, fingers gripping the steering wheel.

He drove them to the usual spots around town. The windows were rolled down, the summer breeze filtering in through the restored Mustang, and his music played softly in the background. This was all just a warm-up. Because his favorite part, whenever he finished a car, was finally getting to cut loose, ride hard, and let everything out.

And fuck, did this baby know how to squeal.

Sammy laughed, hanging on for dear life and feeling the air whip around them as Frankie did a donut in a vacant, abandoned parking lot.

“Fuck!” Sammy yelled, grinning, braced against the passenger seat.

He braked and spun the wheel, hand instinctively placed on Sammy’s chest, pushing him back as he forced the car into a hard spin. He felt the thump of his heart and knew it matched his own. Once the spin stopped, he withdrew quickly but not before smacking his shoulder excitedly, grinning like a goddamned fool.

“Yeah?” he asked, breathless and searching Sammy’s face.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Shit, man. I forgot how fun it was to do this.”

“Makes you miss it, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Good.

“You remember when we found this place?” Frankie asked, motioning to the empty lot.

“Your mom was so pissed at us.”

“That she was,” he smirked. “Got my ass chewed out for a month for stealing her Caddy.”

“I’m pretty sure she loved that car more than you.”

“Shut up,” he flicked Sammy’s ear playfully, and then nodded. “Well, yeah, she did.”

“You remember the first time we did this?”

The streaming rays of sunbeams filtered over the console and Sammy. Frankie blinked, caught in the picturesque image of his best friend, surrounded by restored cream leather seats and dark metal-and-wood interior. His graying, curled brown hair was wind-tousled, and his cheeks were freshly shaved. The lines around his mouth looked deeper with age, and the bags under his eyes were there but less pronounced. He liked that taking Sammy for a ride seemed to make him happy. Being here, with him, made him happy, too.

A sudden pang of grief hit him like a blow to the stomach.

I miss you. I miss this. I miss us.

“Of course,” Frankie said, clearing his throat. “You were scared shitless.”

“Fuck you, I was not.”

“You were, you fuckin’ were. You were beggin’ me to slow down. You even threatened to vomit if I didn’t pull over. Which I then threatened to beat your ass if you did.”

Sammy scrubbed a hand over his face, “I would definitely diagnose that as my first ever panic attack.”

“Panic attack?”

“You know—when your heart rate races, and it feels like you’re gonna die, but you don’t?”