I shake my hair loose, and the boys are now staring at me. “Hi, I’m Shoshanna,” I say, bouncing my gaze between them and their bikes. “Cool bikes. Are they yours?”
“He owns them,” one boy says, pointing at Bronson but grinning at me, his lips curving to the side in a flirtatious way. He feeds his hand through his slick black hair, saying, “But we fix em.”
“You break em,” a boy with blond hair laughs.
“Are you flirting with my girl, Callum?” Bronson teases, entwining our hands and guiding us towards the track. “Show us what you boys have been working on.”
As we make our way over to the dusty, hilling track, the boys swarm around us. They look like puppies tumbling at our heels, desperate for a pat. It’s adorable.
We join a few more boys, and they all show us their bikes. They laugh amongst themselves; the commotion and their hollering are enough to finally cause my smile to beat the sadness. I watch them banter, and when Bronson clips one kid over the back of the head for cursing, they all laugh.
I do too.
“Take her out. She’s so fast,” the boy I now know is Callum says, his eyes darting eagerly from Bronson to the bike. “She’ll be a smoother ride than your grandma Ducati.”
I gasp in mock horror. “Oh, man. That’s fighting words.”
“Well well.” Bronson climbs on the dark green dirt-bike, kick starting her. “I best defend my girl’s honour and prove you wrong. Let’s see how she goes.”
“Here,” I hear a feminine voice say from behind me as Bronson speeds off around the track. Some boys jump on their machines, racing after him, while others run over to the side, hooting and teasing.
I spin around and a woman my age is holding out a beer for me. She’s tanned with dark-brown hair and eyes, perhaps an islander - Samoan or Maori. Her button up blue shirt is covered in oil and dirt, but she still looks attractive.
“Thank you.” I take it and use that opportunity to peer over at the building. The far side looks like a motorbike mechanic’s workshop, a few men kneeling, working on fancy looking machines. The other side looks like a motorbike massacre, parts everywhere, bits and pieces and half-built vehicles. A bit of formality and a bit of anarchy. It’s a large area. Noisy with both machinery and music.
The vibe is playful.
I like it a lot.
“They love it when he visits. It’s not often enough,” the girl says, moving in next to me, looking across the yard. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her tilt her beer to me, so I tilt mine to hers. They clink in greeting. “I’m Juliette.”
“Shoshanna,” I say, unable to tear my eyes from Bronson as he takes the jumps, getting air, pushing the machine to its limits.
“He’s never brought anyone here before,” she states, her voice husky and confident. “I know who he is. The whole District knows. But. . . I have never met his brothers.”
I turn to look at her. “You’re friends?”
“Not really.” She turns to face me, raisin-coloured eyes meet mine. “He owns the place.” She shrugs. “I manage it.” A little smile hits her lips as though she knows our history - our secrets - but before I can pry, she walks back towards the workshop. “Nice to meet you, Shoshanna,” she calls out over her shoulder.
In my own company again, with the view of him and those boys, the lovely district breeze that smells like our lookout and my past, I realise something that becomes hard to swallow. Something that makes the empty place in my stomach retch, turn, and sting.
Our boy would have been about their age. . .
So, while I watch Bronson pull the bike up alongside the eager boys and jump off, patting Callum on the back encouragingly, I get a front row view of what life could have been. Of what my life with Bronsonshouldhave been. With our son. His words from years ago soar around me.“I’ll be better. A good citizen. Pay taxes and shit. I’ll get a part-time job or whatever. Fuck, I’ll work on bikes. I’d like that.”
Tears begin to bubble, but I swallow them down with the knot in my throat. I want this picture with him. He was my choice. All those years ago, I chose him. In that moment, Bronson looks at me from the side-line, a small grin hitting his lips.
A grin just for me.
He says something that makes the boys sulk before striding towards me. I take a step towards him, craning my neck to meet his green-blue gaze.
He nods at the workshop. “Do you like it, baby?”
I let myself smile at him; it’s sad but still a smile. I just wish I could fall in love with him all over again without the weight of what happened a few days ago, making me feel as though I shouldn’t be happy. “I think you’re something special, nutcase.”
Sitting heavily between us is the truth about what this means, why he did it, who he did it for. But neither of us can manage to say it aloud in case it is the catalyst to this dreamy state I am in willingly.
His hand moves to my neck, cradling my head from below my chin. “Well, my evil plan is working, then. Isn’t it? You ready to head back?”