Zara
By the time Locke and I get to the clubhouse the next morning, I’ve already changed my mind four times. Not about wanting the job, that part is settled.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more impossible it becomes to imagine not doing it. Now that I’ve pictured myself there again with tools in my hands and an engine in pieces in front of me, the wanting has become something alive.
Ridiculous, maybe. Unexpected, definitely. But alive.
The part that I keep changing my mind about is how to tell my father. Which is absurd, really, because he taught me to change oil before I was tall enough to see properly over the handlebars of his Harley. He taught me the difference between listening to an engine and merely hearing one. He taught me that a motorcycle, like a person, will usuall
