“YOU BOUGHT ME A BIKE?”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
For one terrible second, I heard disappointment in my own voice.
“Oh.”
Then quickly:
“No, I mean—it’s beautiful.”
I stepped closer.
“But…”
There was a much bigger problem than Madison’s Jeep.
“Marcus.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t ride a bicycle.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I know you can’t.”
“How?”
He leaned against the workbench.
“Remember when Sophie from your middle-school class asked you to ride to the lake?”
“Yes.”
“You told her Eleanor wouldn’t let you.”
My face heated.
“And when Mrs. Palmer offered us her daughter’s old bike?”
I remembered that too.
“I said bikes were stupid.”
“You were twelve.”
“I didn’t care.”
Marcus looked at me.
“You were embarrassed.”
I said nothing.
HE HAD KNOWN FOR YEARS
“You remembered?”
Marcus touched one yellow handlebar.
“Kids who truly don’t care about bicycles don’t stare at other kids riding them.”
My throat tightened.
He crouched near the rear wheel.
“This frame was going to scrap.”
“What?”
“A guy I know had it behind his shop.”
Marcus ran a finger along the frame.
“I started rebuilding it eleven weeks ago.”
Eleven weeks.
The nights.
The receipts.
The cuts.
The grease.
I suddenly understood.
“You were working on this every night?”
“He lets me use the back garage after closing.”
My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
“You weren’t leaving Mom.”
Marcus looked up.
“What?”
“I thought…”
I stopped.
He stood.
“You thought I was leaving?”
I turned away.
“Forget it.”
“Oh, kiddo.”
“Don’t.”
My eyes were already burning.
After a moment, Marcus said:
“Your mom knew exactly where I was.”
I looked back.
“She did?”
“Of course.”
He almost laughed.
“I’m not stupid enough to disappear until two in the morning without telling Eleanor.”
“She knew about the bike?”
“She knew I was building something.”
Then Marcus smiled.
“Keeping you from finding out was apparently harder than rebuilding it.”
I laughed through my tears.
