Derby opens the door and steps onto the porch. I follow, holding August’s hand.
Wildcat pulls into the driveway in my truck.
My truck.
It looks the same and different. Still old. Still faded. Still dented on the passenger side. But it has a new tire, the front end sits better, and when he cuts the engine, it doesn’t cough like it’s dying out of spite.
My throat closes.
Wildcat hops out and tosses the keys once in his hand. “Took her on a test run. She ain’t pretty, but she’ll run.”
I step off the porch. “You fixed it?”
“Fixed enough. Changed the tire. Patched a leak. Tightened belts. Battery’s holding. Engine still complains, but so does Derby, and we keep him around.”
Derby grunts. “Barely.”
Wildcat gives me the keys.
I reach for them, but Derby takes them first.
My heart drops before I can stop it.
There it is.
That old instinct.
A man taking the keys.
A man deciding when I can leave.
Derby sees my face.
His changes immediately.
He looks down at the keys in his hand like they have burned him.
Then he steps in front of me and places them directly in my palm.
Not tossed.
Not held out for me to take while he keeps half-control.
Placed.
Firm.
Mine.
“You said you needed a way out,” he says.
I stare at the keys.
The metal is warm from his hand.
“And you’re giving it to me?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine.