chapter 3

Cremation was colder than I expected, not the process, but the silence. The finality of it.

I stood in the crematorium chapel, alone in black, arms crossed. No crowd, no eulogies, just the hum of the air conditioner and flickering fluorescent lights.

There was no one to invite. My father had no close family. Just me. Always just me.

He was well-liked in the community, known for fixing engines and offering discounts to those struggling. But I couldn’t bear the thought of a spectacle. So, it was just me. I signed the papers, held the urn, said goodbye, but it didn’t feel like goodbye, instead it felt more like a pause in a scream.

Outside, I saw a motorcycle.

Parked at the edge of the lot, chrome gleaming even under the dull sky. It looked like my father’s bike, the one he used to polish every Sunday. I walked toward it without thinking, heart racing. But it wasn’t his, wrong handlebars, different rust pattern. Yet, it tore something open in me.

I turned away before anyone could see my eyes water.

Back home, the silence was unbearable. I stood before the closed garage door, remembering who I used to be, a girl with oil under her nails and a father who smelled like motor oil. Now, I avoided it because I knew what was inside.

I opened the door.

His bike. Covered in dust, but still upright, still waiting. The matte blue paint dulled by time. A forgotten cloth on the handlebars, as if he meant to clean it but never did.

I ran my fingers along the gas tank and broke.

Not with loud sobs, but with a quiet, shaking crumble of everything I’d been holding in. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. It wasn’t enough, but it was all I had.

“I’m so sorry, Dad.”

The garage smelled like him, oil, soap, and dust. And the emptiness.

I wiped my face, swung a leg over the bike. It creaked, like it remembered how I used to ride with him. I wasn’t sure it would start. The last time he rode it was before the hospital visits began.

But when I turned the key, it hummed to life, sputtering for a second, then roaring back like it was waking up. Just like me.

____

By the time I pulled back into the driveway, my hands were numb, and the tears had dried. I parked the bike and walked into the house without looking back.

I packed. no dresses, no photos. Just essentials like clothes, documents, a half-empty bottle of lotion, my laptop, a few bills.

In the kitchen, I froze.

The letter. The one I’d torn in half, now glued back together. The edges were crooked, but it was intact. My father’s unmistakable handwriting:

“Joanie,

I know you’re hurting. I should’ve done more. But I never stopped being proud of you. When you're ready, I’ll be here.”

I folded it gently and slipped it into my bag, alongside his leather jacket and wallet from the nightstand.

---

I stood at the threshold, the house too still. No scent of engine oil, no half finished projects. Just empty walls and dust.

I locked the door behind me, not out of necessity, but to tell myself it was done.

I straddled the bike, took a deep breath, and turned the key. The engine roared like it had been waiting.

I slid on the helmet, closed my eyes, and opened them. I rode into whatever came next.

Somewhere off Highway 12, I saw a rusted sign: "Cliff’s End Gas & Garage." My tank was low, and my shoulders ached.

The garage sat at the edge of a cracked lot with a few big, loud bikes out front. The gas pump looked outdated.

I pulled in.

The engine sputtered to a stop as I dismounted. My legs felt stiff. I shook out my hair, too tired to care about the mess.

A man stood near the garage bay, arms sleeved with ink, wiping grease off his hands. He squinted at me like I’d interrupted something important.

“You lost?” he called, not sounding friendly.

“No,” I replied.

“People don’t just stumble here, especially not women who look like they belong in a condo brochure.”

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I exhaled, focusing on the pump. “I just need gas.”

“The pump’s broken. Has been for days,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

I glanced at the sign, half-covered in dust. “I didn’t see it.”

He walked toward me, his presence rough and unignorable. “You ride that in?”

I nodded.

“It’s lucky it didn’t stall halfway. Looks like it hasn’t been serviced in months.”

“It was my dad’s. He took care of it.”

“Well, he obviously wasn’t around long enough to finish the job.”

Something snapped inside me. I stepped forward. “I don't know who pissed in your coffee this morning but that's not on me. I need gas, not a conversation.”

“Then maybe you should’ve read the sign,” he shot back.

We locked eyes. He broke the silence first.

“Shop’s closed. There’s a station two miles down. Might still be open, or not.”

I didn’t respond. I climbed back onto the bike and put on the helmet.

As I started the engine, I caught his eyes again. There was something strange there, mlnot pity, not interest, but recognition.

Then I rode away.

Fast.

The engine sputtered twice, then died.

I coasted to a stop, sitting there, willing the bike to start again. But it didn’t.

No buildings in sight. Just the empty road and a distant sign that could’ve been the station or a mirage.

I checked my phone, one bar, no service.

I turned around.

Twenty minutes later, a guy in a rusted pickup pulled over. He didn’t say much, just grunted and pointed back down the road. I loaded the bike and climbed in. We didn’t speak.

When we reached the garage, the man from earlier was still there, wiping his hands with the same rag.

“No gas station?” he asked.

“Engine died,” I muttered.

“Told you it needed servicing.”

I exhaled. “I need somewhere to stash the bike until I find a mechanic.”

“I’m a mechanic,” he replied.

“You’re also a jackass.”

A beat passed before his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“Can’t argue with that. Name’s Jax.”

"Sounds the same to me."

He gestured toward the shed. “Leave it behind there. I’ll take a look tomorrow if I feel like it.”

I wanted to punch something, but instead, I said, “Fine.”

He walked off without another word. I watched him go, hands clenched.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.