We wait until Tiller’s sober enough to drive, but as soon as he is, we leave.
Me in my plain bridesmaid dress and Tiller in his suit. River took her dress off, refusing to wear it any longer than she had to. She’s passed out in the back seat with Tiller’s suit jacket draped over her half-naked body.
With a heavy mind, I watch Tiller, waiting to see when he’s going to blow up because you and I both know it’s coming. His window’s cracked. Each passing car tangles another loop of his hair, resulting in a wild mess. With his chin tucked down, he scowls into the darkness. Shifted slightly toward the door, his right hand hangs over the steering wheel, his left arm resting on the edge of the door panel as he runs his knuckles slowly across his lower lip and jaw, contemplating. I shouldn’t be surprised by his mood. I knew it was coming.
Enveloped in tension, I have no idea what to say to Tiller once we’re in the truck on our way back to Santa Monica. Do I apologize for my parents? What they said to him? The fact that I didn’t say anything?
Guilt hits my chest like a brick, and it’s so hard to breathe, let alone tell him that I feel horrible for dragging him to a wedding, that if I’m being honest, I knew would turn out this way. Had I led him into the lion’s den willingly?
It’s on hour three, just as we can see the sun rising to the east when I finally say, “I’m sorry.”
Tiller won’t even look at me, his hard, cold eyes never releasing from the road ahead. “Don’t be.”
“He shouldn’t have said those things to you. You’re a good dad.”
Now he looks at me. “I’m not a dad. I was a fucking sperm donor at best.”
With the misery of the night still haunting me, I point out, “She loves you.”
He shakes his head. “She doesn’t even know me.” And then he regards with a certain sourness I’m familiar with. “I don’t even know if you do.”
“I know you. You’re a good person whether you want to believe it or not.”
He grunts but doesn’t respond and turns up the music. But it’s the music I take note in and the song he turns up. “Human” by Rag’n’Bone Man.
I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. And I know he won’t tell me. I’ve known Tiller long enough to know when he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t, and the more you push, the more he resists.
Tiller has a cool truck. It’s a brand-new blacked-out Ford Raptor and fast as hell for a truck. People who are into cars know this, and they’re constantly testing him. And by testing, I mean trying to race him. Usually he ignores them. Racing has never been his thing. He’s more about showing off, which is why he’s always been into freestyle rather than motocross.
We’re about an hour outside of Santa Monica when a cherry-red Durango RT with a hood scoop pulls up beside us on Interstate 5 and taunts himself forward.
Tiller, still humming with aggression, shakes his head and rolls it to the side to glance at me. “What a douche.”
Over my shoulder, I peek back at River. She’s still asleep, wearing Tiller’s hat he had back there and drooling all over his suit jacket. “Ignore them,” I tell him, barely able to keep my eyes open much longer. It’s nearing five in the morning and we still haven’t slept yet.
Do you think Tiller listens to me?
Ha. That’s funny. You don’t know him very well. I’ll give him this much, he attempts to, but the kids in the car next to us don’t give up. They continue their pursuit to get Tiller to race them by swerving between lanes, crowding him and eventually nearly hitting us like some kind of classic California road rage. That pisses Tiller off. If he wasn’t there already from that horrible wedding we’d just trashed.
Consumed with rage, Tiller smashes the gas pedal to the floor and my head snaps back against the seat. Awesome. Now I’m going to die.
Tiller’s menacing gaze shifts to the side window and he rolls it down like he’s going to yell at them. Not only will they not hear what he says, this is the kind of thing you should avoid. It’s a sure way to either get a gun pulled on you or entice them further.
“Tiller.” I slap his shoulder. “Knock it off. Ease off. Don’t make it worse.” I’m remaining calm for the moment, but what I really want to do is yell at him because how can he even think this would be okay to speed with River in the truck. Especially seeing how just a few weeks ago, she lost both her parents to reckless driving.
Do you think he listens to me? Nope. And with the wind in the truck having the window down, I doubt he heard me in the first place. He’s too busy yelling obscenities at them.
The roar of the engine screams on the interstate and luckily there are no other drivers because I doubt Tiller or this guy in the Durango would have cared.
Rolling up the window, Tiller grips the wheel tighter, pulling ahead of the Durango by a few feet. “What the fuck is this guy’s problem?”
Did he want me to answer him? I don’t think he does, so I remain quiet.
The Durango lurches forward and then starts to pull away. Tiller’s competitive side flares and naturally, he wants to beat this guy now.
Before long, I’m feeling sick and gripping my seat with my eyes screwed shut. I can’t watch.
“If he hits us,” Tiller’s voice forces my eyes open, “I will fuck him up.”
If he hits us? The thought is horrifying to me.
That’s when River wakes up and starts to cry, her face pale. Oh crap. I know that look. “Um, Tiller. . . I might not have mentioned this, but River gets car sick.”
He ignores me. Naturally. He’s too caught up in a car chase to realize I’m talking.
“Tiller?”
Nothing.
Okay, well. I look around the truck to see if there’s anything I can catch puke in, but I can’t find anything. His truck is meticulously clean.
“I’m serious, Tiller. She’s going to puke!” I shout, unbuckling my seatbelt and hanging over the passenger seat. Half of me is in the front seat, the other in the back, trying to sooth River by rubbing her knee. “It’s okay, baby, just take a deep breath.”
She cries hysterically, pushing Tiller’s jacket and hat off her. “No, no, no, no!”
“Uh, Tiller?”
The Durango pulls ahead, whips in front of us and slams on his brakes. “What a fucking asshole!” Tiller shouts and slams on the brakes himself.
And then it happens. I hit the dashboard from not being buckled in and River vomits.
All.
Over.
The.
Truck.
Some even hits me in the face, and the windshield.
That, and only for that reason, Tiller pulls over because apparently if he smells vomit, it makes him sick too.
“I sorry,” River says, rubbing Tiller’s arm when we’re at the rest stop and he’s cleaning her off with baby wipes.
He mumbles out a reply, but I don’t hear it. For one, I’m so angry at him and I’m too busy trying to get chunks out of my hair and keep myself from vomiting. It’s so gross.
“I can’t believe you did that!” I yell at Tiller.
He stares at me, his eyes hard and cold, but says nothing. He knows what he did wrong.
Stomping away, I take River to the bathroom and finish cleaning up the two of us while Tiller rolls down all the windows to the truck to air it out.
“I sorry I puked,” River tells me, shaking as I wipe her down. “That was scary.”
I touch her cheek. “It’s okay, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry that was so scary for you.”
When we’re back at the truck, I stand there on the sidewalk with River. Tiller’s tossing soiled shop towels on the ground. “I think you can put her back in.” He eyes River carefully, like he’s waiting for her to spew again. “You don’t feel sick again, do you?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
Lifting her up, he gets her back in her seat and she squirms. “It wet.”
He hands her the iPad and her blanket that amazingly didn’t get wet during the process. “Because you puked in it. I had to hose it off.” And then he shuts the door.
I don’t even know where to begin, but I have to say something. “You’re a selfish jerk. I cannot believe you put her life in danger just because some douche wanted to race you.”
His eyes snap to mine like bolts of lightning. “You don’t think I fucking know that?” he bites back at me, the quiet lost as his temper flares. He looks panicked, guilty, and... angry. “
Tears surface, stinging my eyes, pool in the corners and I swallow over that familiar lump rising. As I attempt to get inside the truck and let the both of us calm down before getting in, Tiller’s hand catches the door. I don’t look at him, afraid if I do I might start crying.
“Oh goddamn it. I’m sorry,” he grumbles, reaching his hands up to tug at his hair. “I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry! Okay, I’m fucking sorry!”
I twist to face him. caught off guard by the agony in his face. “We can’t just think about ourselves anymore,” I whisper, swiping away the heaviest tears as they let loose. “We have to think about her too.”
“She shouldn’t be around me.” He leans back against the truck, his head hung, and his shoulders slumping forward. “You shouldn’t be.”
My hands seek him out, wanting to ease his pain.
And just like that, his hostile mood returns. Abruptly, his body tenses and he straightens his posture. “What should I do? What do you want from me? What does she want from me?”
“I don’t know.” I honestly don’t know. I have no idea what to do myself. My hands slip from his shoulders. “I don’t even know what I’m doing. Just that I’m trying to do right by her. . . and what Ava wanted. And that was for her to know who you are.”
“Do you really think that’s for the best?” he asks between his teeth. “I don’t know what everyone wants from me. Sponsors, promoters. . . they want me to be myself, and when I am that guy, when I do what I do best, which is destroy everything good and show them who I am, they don’t want the bad boy. I don’t understand what they thought I would do.” His expression is one of frustration, annoyance, and underneath it, honesty.
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this from him. Tiller and every other rider in the sport have the right to feel like the sport dictates how they behave. What did they expect him to do with the pressures put upon him? Do they honestly expect a twenty-three-year-old kid, who’s been in the spotlight since he was old enough to walk, would know exactly when and how to turn his aggression on and off?
But still, this has nothing to do with what’s going on with his career. This should be about River and the fact that he can’t just think about his career anymore. He has a daughter. “I know you’re frustrated, but again, this kind of thing can’t happen in her presence.”
Tiller stands, his eyes shifting toward me briefly, before darting back to the parking lot we’re parked in. He stands straight and steps toward me. He looks restless again. I want to take away his pain and his burdens, but I shouldn’t have to. “I’m sorry.” His hands frame my face. “That was a douche move and I know it. I didn’t mean to take any of that out on you or put you guys in danger.”
I nod, tears pooling in my eyes, but I don’t cry.
His chest expands in a deep breath and he shakes his head, his voice softening. “This is why I didn’t want her to know me.”
I know Tiller well enough to know when he apologizes, he means it. It’s then in a parking lot outside of Bakersfield with the warm morning air blowing through my hair, I finally understand him. He’s scared of the responsibility that comes with being a dad. He keeps his guard up because he fears he won’t be good enough to be someone’s father, and my father has just thrown that in his face.
I shiver despite the warm air. Goose bumps of a different kind graze over my skin. His lips brush against my neck once again, and it’s one of the sweetest gestures he’s ever made, followed by, “I really am sorry.”