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“I don’t know,” I say, dropping my head back on my shoulders.
“See.”
“Fuck you, dude.”
I reach for the shop towel on the counter beside me and throw it at his chest. He snatches it out of midair and tucks the corner into his back pocket.
“Really, though, what’s bugging you?”
I cross my feet at the ankle and my arms over my chest, drawing in a deep breath as I attempt to sort through the tangle of emotions boiling at the surface of my mind.
“It’s not fun,” I say simply.
“How so?”
“It’s so… impersonal. I don’t work on my own car; I don’t race the way I want to. The press is always up my ass, trying to start drama between all the drivers and make something out of the smallest interactions. Everything has to be handled with a camera in your face or with some press conference. It’s stupid. On the streets, if some asshole gets caught driving dirty, you hand him his ass in a brown paper bag and send him home to mommy.”
Milo chuckles, setting the wrench down and leaning against the front left fender of the Chevelle.
“Everything is so complicated when all I want to do is just race.”
“But you do race, Bo. And get paid a hell of a lot more to do it for them than you ever won on the streets,” he says.
“Yeah, the money is great, but I have no freedom anymore. This just… isn’t me.” I say, biting the inside of my cheek and dropping my chin to my chest.
“Of course, it’s not, dude,” Milo says, and I lift my head to look at him. “You stepped into Tommy’s shoes to take care of shit for your family, and that’s awesome, man. But you’re living his dream. Your old man’s dream. Racing pro was never what you wanted. Of course you’re miserable. But you signed on the dotted line, man. Somehow, you’re going to have to learn to cope. Or have a serious sit down with the old man and make some arrangements.”
I scoff.
“Yeah, that’ll never happen.”
“You never know unless you try, Bo.”
“I don’t need to talk to him. That’s what led me here. All he can say is that I am a sorry substitute for the son he wishes was still alive.”
Milo’s features soften as he meets my heated gaze.
“Did he say that?”
“No, but he might as well have.”
The silence stretches between us as he gives me a minute to collect myself.
“Look, man, it’s none of my business, but I think the two of you are still dealing with some serious anger, rightfully so. But you two need to come to terms and hash shit out, for better or worse, because the round and round shit is only going to do more damage.”
He’s right. I know he is. I think of my mom, and how much our fighting hasn’t helped her deal with the loss of my brother. When Tommy died, it was like a giant wind swept through our family, turning everything over, making a mess of us all, and it extinguished a part of her. The part of her that found true happiness in the moments that she mothered him. The part that was lost on that horrific day. She still has to wake up every day and be a mother, even though she lost her son.
I understand that she’s hurting, but I feel like I lost her that day, too. Her grief stole her from me, and it made me angry. Like I had lost the only person I had left on my team.
I reach up and wipe away a tear before it can fall and clear my throat to get rid of the tight knot lodged there.
“Okay, well, that’s enough of that,” I say, forcing a laugh as I push off the workspace behind me.
“Sorry, man,” Milo says.
“Nah, man, you’re all right. It’s appreciated.”
He nods once, fiddling with one of the bolt heads under that hood.
