“It was uncomfortable.”
“Nine years old.”
“I had standards.”
He nodded.
Then:
“I lied to your mother.”
The woman frowned.
“When?”
“First night.”
“About what?”
“When she asked why I built it.”
The woman waited.
“I told her seeing you made me want to build something stupid again.”
“That wasn’t a lie.”
“Not all of it.”
He looked toward the shop window.
His daughter’s display motorcycle remained there.
“What was the rest?”
He reached into his vest.
Removed an old folded piece of paper.
Fragile.
Crayon marks.
He handed it to her.
A child’s drawing.
Yellow motorcycle.
Impossible proportions.
Beside it, a huge bearded man.
At the bottom:
DAD BUILD THIS FOR GIRL WHO NEEDS IT
The woman stared.
“What?”
The biker smiled sadly.
“My daughter drew that two weeks before she died.”
The woman looked closer.
“Dad build this for girl who needs it.”
Her throat tightened.
“You never told me.”
“Didn’t know what it meant.”
“She probably meant herself.”
“Probably.”
He looked toward her.
“Then you rode past.”
“Yellow cardboard bike.”
“Pink helmet.”
“Wouldn’t stop making engine noises.”
The woman smiled through tears.
“And you thought—”
“No.”
He interrupted.
“I didn’t think fate.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
She laughed.
He continued.
“I thought I’d spent twelve years breaking a promise to a dead ten-year-old.”
The woman’s eyes filled.
“So I built something.”
He shrugged.
“That’s all.”
She held the drawing.
The words blurred through tears.
He looked uncomfortable.
“Don’t cry.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
She leaned against him.
He allowed it.
The biker died seven months later.
Not at the shop.
At home.
His old apartment above the garage.
The woman was there.
So was her mother.
The bald mechanic.
Several Iron Wolves riders.
He had spent the day downstairs until exhaustion forced him upstairs.
Near midnight, the woman sat beside the bed.
He looked toward her.
“Shop locked?”
“Yes.”
“Gas off?”
“Yes.”
“Compressor drained?”
“Yes.”
“Back door?”
“Locked.”
He nodded.
Then:
“Cardboard bike?”
“Still there.”
“Good.”
The woman held his hand.
He whispered:
“Bars still too high.”
She laughed and cried at the same time.
“You’re unbelievable.”
His eyes closed.
Then opened once more.
“You build good.”
The woman froze.
He had never said that.
Not directly.
Good job, sometimes.
Works.
Better.
Again.
Never:
You build good.
She squeezed his hand.