Shift

“You really think that’s what it’s going to be like? Years of dirt tracks and drag races? Drifts and pay-to-plays? Side bets and small towns?” I know my brother can’t think that. He might not like Dustin’s family tree, but he believes in the guy who has been his best friend for more than a decade. Doesn’t he?

“I don’t know. Is Dustin good? I mean, yeah. He’s the best we’ve seen. But really, what have we seen, Ha

“Odds are for the other guys,” I say back to him. His lip turns up, but only briefly. That’s one of Dustin’s favorite sayings. It’s cocky as fuck, but it’s always been true when it comes to any race he’s in. Whatever wheels are being driven by Dustin Bridges are the ones crossing the finish line first. Everyone else fights for second.

“Whatever,” Tommy says abruptly, standing and circling the stool he abandoned. He positions his hands on the back of it, fingers wrapping around the ornate metal design. My eyes focus on his hands, the way they seem to be stuck on pause, anchoring him here with me.

“Just see how it goes,” I spit out. My words sound desperate, even whispered. Tommy can’t abandon Dustin, though. He just can’t. My insides burn at the mere thought of what that would do to Dustin.

“Yeah, I guess that’s really the plan. I’m kind of doing that. But”—he pauses, letting go of the chair and flexing his fingers, curling them into fists that he holds in front of his chest, head down as he stares at his knuckles. His head starts to shake—“you don’t need to see how this goes, this you and Dustin thing. It doesn’t go anywhere. You understand?” My brother lifts his head, his muscles flexed and jaw clenched like a father putting his foot down. He’s not even giving our father a chance at the role.

“What happens in my life and who I decide to share parts of it with isn’t up to you.” I fold my arms around my stomach and tip my chin up to let him know I’m not afraid of his pseudo-authority.

“It’s not. It’s up to you, but . . . this?” He gestures over his shoulder. “Getting involved with Dustin won’t end well, Ha

“That why you lied about the car part I bought for him?” It’s an odd thing to throw back at him, but I’ve been harboring resentment over the credit he stole from me. And maybe I’m a bit of a petulant child. Sure, Tommy thinks he’s coming from a good place with all of this “advice,” but it’s preachy bullshit. He doesn’t see Dustin the way I do. He can’t.

“Tell him. I’ll tell him. You want me to wake him up right now and let him know my sister has a crush on him and bought him a present so he’ll pay attention to her?” He rolls his eyes as he dishes out the insults, and I shift my feet, offended.

“Are you serious with this?” My molars grind together while I bite my tongue—literally—to hold back from saying more.

Tommy moves close to me, dipping his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants as he steps close enough to show off his height advantage. He loves looking down on me when he’s trying to win an argument. It’s a power play for him.

“I’m dead serious. This crush of yours means a lot more to you than him. I guarantee it does. He’s clinging to you because he’s hurting, and you’re familiar. But Ha

“Pfft,” I retort, turning my head to the side so my brother can’t see the sting that left in my eyes.

He clears his throat, probably baiting me into looking back in his direction. I don’t, especially as I feel him step back.

“You do what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. When this hurts—and it will—don’t expect me to listen to your broken-heart sob story.”

Tommy slaps the wall where the light switch is as he leaves the kitchen space, killing the soft light and leaving me standing alone in the dark. I give in to the burn in my eyes for a few seconds, squeezing my lids shut tight so the tears welling up release down my cheeks. I run my palm over my face almost instantly, erasing their existence before breathing in deep. My attention shifts to cleaning up our mess, tossing the half-eaten pieces in the trash, along with the paper plates. I follow the same path my brother took, but instead of rounding the corner, I halt in the space that leads to the stairs and the direction of the couch, where Dustin is breathing softly.

Holding my breath, I listen for pops and creaks in the house, testing to see who else might be awake. Tommy won’t come back down here. He’s thrown all his moves, and he loves having the last word. My eyes adjust to the darkness as I scan the familiar things in my living room, the extra blanket still folded on the back of the sofa. I move toward it, taking the soft knitted throw in my hands and unfurling it as I round the couch arms and rest a knee on the mattress.

Dustin’s back is to me, one leg bent, the other straight as an arrow, his foot poking out from the sheet he’s sleeping under. I start covering him there, draping the throw over his body until it runs out at his chest. I’m slow and gentle with my movements, not wanting to wake him. I want to lie with him a little while, to hear his heart beat and smell the faint trace of oil on his T-shirt. I nestle in behind him, touching my nose to his spine before rolling my head so my ear rests flat against his warm back, the steady thump taking over all other sounds. I bring my palm up to his bicep and shoulder, and hold on softly, wishing I could reach around his chest and cling to him harder.

My eyes close and I draw in his scent, the mix of my mom’s fabric softener cutting through all things Dustin. I promise myself I won’t stay for more than a minute, but those plans change the moment his hand reaches around and covers mine where it rests on his arm. Our fingers naturally twine together, loosely at first, then our grasp grows tighter as his body shifts and his back is soon replaced with his chest.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say.

He breathes out a whisper of a laugh.

“Hard to sleep through a creepy stalker smelling your clothes,” he says. I blush and press my face into his chest as I playfully slap at his arm.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t glad you woke up.” I lift my chin to peer up at his dark eyes. Even in the darkness, I know exactly how his features look—the sharp cut of his jaw, the flex of his neck muscles, the split in his eyebrow from the stitches he got when he was eleven and his father threw a wrench at his head. I move my hand up his body to his face, my finger tracing the familiar scar.

“You really got the intake back for me, huh?” He heard. How much did he hear?

“Mmm, yeah. I mean, technically, Michael Bosa bought it for you.”

Dustin’s body shakes with a silent laugh.