“I wasn’t.”
“You never rode?” he presses.
“My father rode, but he would’ve had a heart attack if he saw me on a bike,” I say, and Hector points out that it never stopped my father from riding himself.
“That’s different,” I say.
“How?” he asks.
“Parents are hypocrites,” I reply.
“Fair,” he says.
I point toward a motorcycle near the entrance and tell him my father owned one almost identical to it. He looks surprised, says I’ve mentioned motorcycles before but never specifics, and I shrug and admit there were always bikes around when I was growing up, because my father was obsessed with them.
“Still is?” he asks, and his attention sharpens the moment I say yes.
“He currently has seven,” I tell him.
“Seven? You’re sure?” he asks, genuinely shocked.
“Last time I checked,” I answer.
