Finn caught them, then looked at Conn, as wide-eyed as a little kid on Christmas. “I can drive her the rest of the night? Thanks, man!”
“You can drive her the rest of your life, or hers, which will probably be shorter.” Conn reached into the glove box and pulled out the title. “She’s yours.”
Finn’s eyes got impossibly wider. “No way.”
“Way,” Conn and Shane said in unison.
“You should keep her.” Shaking his head, Finn held out the keys. “She was your dad’s car. Your dad gave her to you.”
She was his dad’s car, his pride and joy, but to Conn an anvil dragging him down like Wile E. Coyote after he ran off a cliff. His father never gave him the car. Conn just took it on, because he wanted to be close to his dad, to cling to all he had left of him. “Now I’m giving her to you.”
“What’s Mom going to say?” Finn said, looking at Shane.
“Conn and I talked to her a couple of hours ago. She says no street racing or she’ll drive the car to the salvage yard herself, but okay.”
“I’ve got a couple hundred bucks saved,” Finn said. “I’ll get you the cash as soon as I get to the bank. Or I can transfer the money with my phone. What email address—?”
Conn held up his hand, stopping Finn midsentence. “You’re going to need that money. The head gasket’s going to blow any run.”
Finn seemed about to protest again, but shut his mouth when Conn gave him his stare. “Thanks,” he saw awkwardly. He looked to be somewhere between tears and total joy. Conn remembered what that was like, to want wheels, cool wheels, that thing that defined you to your peers.
“I catch you street racing her and I’ll have your ass in jail so fast you’ll think you were caught in a time warp. And then I’ll call your mom. Got a pen?”
“I won’t. Just the track.” He launched himself at Conn, thumping him on the back, all gangly teenage puppy energy. Conn took the pen Shane extracted from his jacket pocket and scrawled his signature on the title. Finn’s hands were shaking when he took it. “Thank you. I mean it. She’s the coolest car out here. Do you care if I tinker with the gear ratio?”
“She’s not my car anymore,” Conn said gently, feeling an unutterable sense of relief. “Turn her into a clown car like the Shriners drive. Go to town. She’s all yours.”
“Come back and race her any time,” Finn said.
“Thanks,” Conn said, genuinely surprised. “I’ll do that.”
Just like that, he turned and walked away from the fight he’d been fighting his entire life, whether to be like his dad or to leave him behind. His dad had taught him to go down fighting, locked in a cage match, but Cady taught him that sometimes the only way to win was to walk away. Before he’d had nothing to walk to.
Now he did. He had Cady.
She was waiting a few feet away, smiling. “That was a nice thing to do,” she said when he joined her.
“Looks like I’m going to be traveling a lot in the future.” He shrugged. “He loves that car.”
“Win-win.” She snuggled under his arm.
“Getting cold?”
“A little,” she said. “I’m dressed for shopping, not the track.”
“Let’s get you home, then.”
She looked up at him. “Good. A fire and some hot cocoa sound perfect right now.” She lifted her chin for a kiss, hummed when his lips brushed hers. “But I already am home, Conn. I’m with you.”
It all came together, the song and the season, Cady’s body against his, the feeling of love and belonging transformed into a sense of weightlessness that carried him off the airfield. It was true. She belonged to him, and he belonged to her.
He was home.
Read on for a sneak preview of Anne Calhoun’s next book
TURN ME LOOSE
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
“Okay, team, huddle up.”
The evening birdsong trilled through the screen door as servers, chefs, sous chefs, and the night’s hostess gathered around Riva. She leaned against the prep table and scanned their faces, checking in with each kid, all of them involved in the East Side Community Center’s after-school and weekend programs. The servers wore identical uniforms of black pants with black shirts tucked in, and a knee-length white apron. Kiara, the night’s hostess, came in last, pen and paper poised to write down the night’s menu before transferring it to the chalkboard intended for the front porch.
“Run it down for me, Chef Isaiah,” Riva said.
Aware of his lead role in the kitchen, Isaiah straightened. “We have three mains today, the usual rib eye and chicken, and the special, salmon seared in a sauce of shallots and grapefruit, accompanied by asparagus and potatoes roasted in garlic, rosemary, and olive oil. Appetizers are bruschetta, mussels, and we have Brussels sprouts roasted in olive oil with bacon and onions.”