Page 49 of Crash Course
"I was a teenager then," he said. "Running wild. He was afraid I’d do something stupid and hurt myself. Like I said, I had no focus. Or patience."
"Considering you now fly airplanes, I’m guessing you learned to focus."
Resting one hip against the workbench, he nodded. "Thanks to wrestling. I had that wild streak. Getting into fights a lot. Drove my parents nuts. I couldn’t help it. Plus, I’m competitive." He gave her a wolfish grin. "Like your dad, I like to win. My mom used to say I got an overload of testosterone. Pretty much, I enjoyed putting hands on people. It was an outlet."
"Fascinating."
"Nah. I was a kid with too much energy. Anyway, one year I got suspended three times. Dad sat me down and told me I could straighten up and make something of myself or continue doing what I was doing and get locked up. Then they made me sign up for wrestling. Dad figured since I liked to fight so much, it might be a fit. He was right."
"Phin told me you were a state champion."
Look at Phinny, helping his cause. Go, little brother, go. "I was. Worked my ass off."
All to please his father. Which, hello, never happened. It still stuck in his craw. As much as he idolized his father and admired his toughness, Cruz could never quite live up. He was the fuckup. If he put his fork an inch too far from his plate, he’d get popped on the head. If he left his backpack by the door? Popped in the head. Meanwhile, his brothers might do the same and them?
Told to move it.
The pops to the head were solely for Cruz.
And yet. He’d adored the man. Total hero worship. When Dad died, Cruz grieved so hard he thought he might die himself from the pain. From the all-out shattering of his chest.
Cilla reached for him, wrapping her warm hand around his wrist and sending heat storming his system. "We’re alike in that way. Both of us wanting to please our fathers."
"Yeah, but . . ." He shook it off, looked back at the photo of his father.
"But what?"
He’d never admitted what kept him up at night. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure he could identify it himself. Never mind talking to Mom or his brothers or Grams. Voicing it, whatever it was, he imagined, made him soft.
"Cruz?"
He looked back at her with her sharp green eyes and perfect red lips and . . .yes.
"Sometimes," he said, "I feel like I’m chasing a ghost."
And, whoa. What the hell, man.Shut the fuck up.He shook his head. "I don’t know why I said that. I’m an idiot."
"Uh, no. You’re not. There’s nothing wrong with still trying to please him. You were barely an adult when you lost him. I’m lucky. I still have both my parents, but spent my formative years separated from my mother. There’s a piece of me that understands being without a parent. Not that I’m comparing the two. Totally different. For you, it’s a wound that probably won’t fully heal."
She got it. Holy, holy shit. A rush of air escaped and a surge of ugly, absolute filthy, emotion gripped his chest, squeezing so dang tight it might asphyxiate him.
Look away. He had to. Those devastating eyes of hers had him all churned up. If this kept up, he’d be on the floor bawling like a whiny toddler.
He faced the wall, tapped the picture of his father, and cleared the mess that caught in his throat. "I know he’s looking down on us. I feel him. Every time I touch this car, I feel him."
"I think he’d be proud of what you’ve done."
Looking back at her, he smiled. "Thank you for saying that. It means . . . a lot. He was tough. But I think he’d be happy I finished his project."
"Of course, he would."
She peered back at the photos and pointed to the very last one on the far right. "What’s this one?"
Ah.Thatone. "The first day I drove it. I finished at four in the morning, but wanted to wait until the sun came up to drive it. I got into the passenger seat and took a nap until seven o’clock. Then I woke everybody up. Ash took that pic right before my mom hopped in and we went for a drive through town."
Dang, his dad would have loved that. The defiance. The up-yours of driving this exceptional car through a town full of gossips who constantly snickered and looked down on "those Blackwells."
It was the ultimate fuck you. Cruz may not have been Dad’s favorite of the bunch, but that day? His father would have enjoyed that.
