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The sounds of the garage fill my ears, a drone of machinery punctuated by metal on metal.

“Do you have any idea how it feels,” he says, “to realize your kid took on your burdens without you even knowing?” He finally straightens, but instead of facing me, he reaches for a rag and turns away.

“It wasn’t like that.”

Except it kind of was. I think of my talk with Jameson.

“It wasn’t only about your injury. I wanted to see if I could do it.” I swallow, gesturing to the bays. “This has always been your thing. And I…I wanted to know if it could be mine, too.”

I told myself I went to Ohio State to get the education that meant so much to my dad before opening a garage together. But really, it had been a safe place to be. Doing well meant staying on top of the work.

Here, it meant being willing to be uncomfortable and underestimated. To keep showing up anyway.

Dad’s listening for the first time since our fight.

“Who’s staying and who’s going?” Keane demands, appearing in the doorway of the break room with his arms folded. His gaze flicks between us like he’s bracing for shrapnel.

We stare each other down.

“I’m staying,” Dad says at last. “Need anything?”

“No. Thanks.”

I wait for him to tell me to come home. He doesn’t.

We’re on the verge of making up but I need to be honest. “I helped win the first race. And I’m going to help win the next one.”

Dad’s hand stills on the rag.

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll get hurt and I won’t be able to stop it.” His clear eyes meet mine.

If there’s a way to tell him he doesn’t need to protect me—or that he can’t—I wish I knew what it was.

Instead, I give him the sandwich I made for my shift. “Good luck, Dad.”

I wait for him to respond. To say my name or to say anything really.

I leave anyway.

“It’s unacceptable. We’re halfway through the semester and they won’t even tell us how we’re doing on the internship,” Megan points out as we’re emerging from our first class of the day.

“You want an ordered ranking?” I ask, shouldering my bag.

“Just a list of names, annotated,” she decides. “ ‘Zane—too preppy.’ ”

“ ‘Megan—too jealous,’ ” he retorts.

“ ‘Shay—fucking the drivers.’ ”

“Untrue,” I counter.

Megan arches a brow. “I heard Jameson walked you to your car last night.”

Yeah, and that’s all he did. The lack of contact is driving me insane.