Chapter 15: A Place to Stay
The autumn air had finally settled over Oakhaven, turning the leaves on the ridge behind Hank's property into brilliant shades of copper, gold, and deep rust that glowed under the crisp October sky. School had started three weeks ago down at the consolidated district building four miles away, and every morning Jax walked me to the end of the gravel driveway to wait for the bright yellow school bus that pulled up with a loud hiss of air brakes. My scuffed sneakers had finally been replaced by a sturdy pair of leather boots that Hank bought down at the mercantile, though I still kept the old taped-up shoes tucked away in the bottom of my duffel bag just to remember where we had started. In the afternoons, I got off the bus right in front of the repair shop, the smell of hot motor oil and cedar smoke greeting me like an old friend as I dropped my backpack on the workbench and went looking for Jax. Today was a Saturday, which meant the shop was closed to customers, leaving the space open for bigger projects like the vintage red bicycle Jax was rebuilding for me out of spare parts he had scrounged from local estate sales. I stood beside him as he tightened the chain with a heavy wrench, his long dark hair tied back behind his neck, the leather vest replaced by a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He wiped his greasy hands on a blue shop rag and pointed down at the back wheel to make sure I saw how the gear alignment worked. "There," Jax said, his voice carrying that familiar, steady rumble. "That ought to hold together even if you try to jump the ditch behind the church." I grabbed the handlebars of the shiny red bike, feeling the cool chrome under my palms, and smiled up at him with a certainty that had taken months to grow. Inside the small house across the yard, the kettle was starting to whistle on the gas stove, signaling that lunch was ready and Hank was probably cutting another slice of apple pie. Jax looked down at me, his rough face softening into an expression that nobody from the old highway club would have ever recognized or believed. "Go wash up, kid," he said, giving my shoulder a firm, affectionate nudge toward the door. "We got work to finish before the sun goes down." I nodded, let go of the bicycle handles, and ran across the packed dirt yard toward the warm kitchen where the smell of coffee and baking bread drifted out through the open screen door. For the first time in my life, there was no truck waiting to pull out in the middle of the night, no motel room door locked against the dark, and no shadow of a secret left to hide from the world. We had crossed the country to find each other, and as I washed the grease from my hands at the kitchen sink, I knew we weren't going anywhere else ever again.
