Speed

Chapter 13

A few days had passed since the eventful weekend in Phoenix, allowing emotions to simmer down and perspectives to realign. Back in El Paso, the garage that served as the heart of the Sun City Fires crew was buzzing with activity and laughter, a stark contrast to the tension and uncertainty that had shrouded us on our trip back. Tonight, it was about coming together, celebrating our bond, and perhaps, in a way, healing.

The garage was alive with the vibrant energy of a party in full swing. Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a warm glow over the collection of cars, tools, and the makeshift dance floor where a few of our braver souls attempted to synchronize their movements to the music blaring from the speakers.

Ryan, ever the life of the party, had taken it upon himself to ensure that spirits were high and the laughter was constant. Surrounded by Jennie, Natalie, and me, he was in the midst of recounting one of his more outlandish racing tales, complete with exaggerated gestures and the occasional playful jab at his own expense.

"And then," Ryan exclaimed, miming a steering wheel in front of him, "just as I'm about to make the turn, I realize—my shoe's untied! Like, how does that even happen mid-race?"

Jennie laughed, rolling her eyes affectionately. "Only you, Ryan, could manage to turn a race into a comedy sketch."

Natalie chimed in, her smile bright. "Well, did you win, or were you too busy trying to tie your shoe?"

Ryan paused for dramatic effect, then shrugged. "Let's just say the car and I crossed the finish line together, but my shoe was definitely not on board with the plan."

The laughter that followed was genuine, a shared moment of lightness that seemed to lift the weight of the past few days. I found myself caught up in the camaraderie, the underlying tension from my confession to Jordan easing in the warmth of our collective mirth.

Glancing over at Jordan, who was chatting with a group on the other side of the garage, I was reminded of the conversation we'd had, of the fears and uncertainties I'd laid bare. Yet, here we were, still standing strong as a crew, as friends. It was a testament to the resilience of our bonds, to the understanding and acceptance that defined the Sun City Fires.

As the night wore on, the party showed no signs of slowing. The garage, with its red accents now bathed in the soft light from the strings of bulbs, felt more like a home than ever. The laughter, the music, and the shared stories wove a tapestry of memories that would, in time, become part of the legend of our crew.

At the makeshift bar, amidst the clinking of bottles and the low hum of conversations filling the garage, I attempted to navigate the awkward space between Jordan and me. The garage was buzzing with energy, a stark contrast to the coldness that had settled between us.

"Hey," I started, edging closer to where Jordan was mixing drinks, a role he'd taken up with an almost studious focus, perhaps as a means to avoid such interactions. "You're becoming quite the bartender. Should we start calling you 'Jordan the Mixologist' now?"

He glanced up, offering a brief, tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, right. Just trying to keep my hands busy," he responded, his attention quickly diverting back to the task at hand.

I leaned against the bar, fiddling with a coaster, trying to find another inroad. "Remember that time we tried to create our own cocktail? What did we even put in that thing? It was like, motor oil mixed with... hopelessness?"

Jordan let out a small, forced chuckle, not looking up this time. "Something like that. Turned out about as well as you'd expect."

The air between us felt thick, charged with all the things we weren't saying. I pushed on, desperate to break through the invisible wall that had erected between us. "Look, Jordan, about Phoenix—I..."