Shift

“So, mom . . .” he starts, and I roll my head and stretch my neck in response.

“Gah! Don’t get me started,” I say, holding up a palm.

We spend the next two hours dissecting our parents’ personalities, and Tommy tries his best to give me advice on how to handle them when it comes to Dustin. Most of his ideas are shit, but when he suggests I write them both letters expressing all the things I can’t seem to say to them without our conversation escalating into a parent-daughter lecture, I agree he’s onto something.

Dustin blows past us somewhere around the middle of town. We don’t see a sign of the Supra again until Tommy and I peel off the main highway onto the state route leading behind the San Tan Mountains. There’s a thin sheen of dust on Dustin’s car, which is parked outside the diner we used to stop at with my dad when we rode down to Tucson.

My brother draws a dick and balls in the grime on Dustin’s window, and I’m in the middle of chastising him when Dustin’s presence moves in close behind me. An arm holding a cold lemonade reaches around me, a long straw poking from the cup. I take the drink and relish in the fact his arm moves in to hug me around the waist.

“I think you’re missing some hair on those,” Dustin says, pointing to my brother’s artwork.

Tommy looks over his shoulder and the two of them stare at each other for a beat. I don’t need to hear them speak to know they reached an understanding in that look: no need for apologies or more fighting. That’s what a lifetime of friendship does.

“You’re right,” my brother finally answers, adding a few dots on the window to accentuate his drawing.

“You guys are children,” I say, though I’m so warm inside over the fact they’re getting along like normal.

Dustin steps up and writes the words SUCK IT to the side of Tommy’s drawing and the two of them shake hands like bros, proud of their work.

“You should erase that before we get there,” I say, looking around the nearby service station lot to see if there are any window cleaning stations.

“Nah,” Dustin says, slinging an arm around my brother and crossing his ankles. “When I kick those rich kids’ asses, I want them to know,” he says.

“Know what?” I ask.

Both Dustin and Tommy laugh, and I get it before they answer.

“That they can suck my dick!” they shout in unison.

My brother climbs in with Dustin and I move back to my car to follow them the rest of the way to the race site. The sun won’t be down for a couple of hours, but this is part of Dustin’s routine. He likes to scout the landscape, even if it’s familiar. He doesn’t want surprises. Then he and my brother dig into the engine and inspect every inch of the car. The Supra will sing like a chorus by race time. And frankly, I don’t mind the view while they work. Especially when Dustin peels off his shirt and tosses it to me for safekeeping.