Page 90 of Forgiving Utah

I roll a bolt between my fingers, trying to envision what this project will become. While it definitely won't be race-worthy, it should be sturdy enough to handle some stunts—built like a tank so that even a crash won't destroy it.

My phone buzzes, and I yank it out of my pocket, disappointed when I see that it's only Tay announcing his arrival.

Still nothing from Devon.

I check my messages anyway, glaring down at the last texts I sent him.

You good?

I'm running a few errands today if you wanna come. And then come with.

Nothing. No read receipt, no sarcastic reply. He slept on the couch last night, and when I got up this morning, he was gone. Didn't tell Logan or Owen where he was going, either. He also left my jacket behind—the one he refuses to give back.

Setting the phone down, I drag a hand over my face. Maybe giving Dev all that money was a mistake. Fuck, after seeing him with my family, followed by some of the best sex of my life, I let my guard down. Who knows what he's off doing right now? Who he's doing?

I fucking hate feeling like this. It's not me at all.

The shed door creaks open as Taylor steps inside. “Dude, I was knocking at the front door for like ten minutes. What are you doing out here?”

“Sorry. Lost in thought, I guess.”

My best friend sidles up beside me, surveying everything I've lined up. “Jesus. You rob a scrapyard or some shit?”

“Bought it,” I mutter. “Mostly. Gonna build a bike.”

“Hmm.” Leaning against the workbench, he picks up my carburetor to inspect it. “So, we gonna talk about what happened?”

I stiffen on instinct with my hand buried in my toolbox. “Huh?”

“With Carlos. That fight you had.”

Oh. For a moment, I thought he was talking about sex with Dev.

Fuck, I think I'd actually prefer talking about sex with Dev.

“It was nothing,” I lie, grabbing a few of the frame pieces to fit together. They're discolored and rusty, but they'll be shining once I finish with them.

“That wasn't nothing, man. We were listening at the door. How come you never told me that you had a problem with vodka?”

I set down a wrench harder than necessary and avert my gaze. “I don't have a problem. It's just… a thing.”

Taylor watches me work for a few seconds, inked arms crossed over his chest. “A thing?”

“Yeah. Dad was an angry motherfucker when he drank the stuff. When I was sixteen, I promised Carlos I’d never touch it again.”

I strategically omit the part where I punched a hole in my bedroom wall because I was drunk off my ass and upset over losing a race. I’m still too ashamed to talk about it.

“Why the fuck am I just hearing about this now?” Taylor demands, putting his hands on his hips. “You told me your mom kicked him out because he was a bum and refused to help out.”

“That wasn’t a lie.” Heaving a sigh, I look my best friend in the eye. My platonic soulmate. Up until this last year, I truly thought we'd live together until we were old men still crashing our bikes, but I think I'm starting to see how naive I've been. “Look, everyone had it rough growing up. Rougher than me. You, Salem, Xed. Matty and I had the only stable homes, and it's not like shit was bad when my dad was gone. There was no point in bringing it up.”

“Dude, we don't do that. There is no ‘someone else had it worse.’ If you were going through stuff, why didn't you say something?”

“Like you told me about your dad kicking your ass?” I counter, raising my brows.

Taylor just stares at me before blowing out a breath. “Yeah, okay. That's fair. Still, though. If you'd told me, I could have helped you stay accountable like you helped me.”

Lifting a shoulder, I sift through my tools as I weigh my next words carefully. “It wasn't really an issue until this past year. After everything that happened, the usual stuff wasn't cutting it, I guess. Vodka buzz hits different.”