“Can I ask you something?” Thomas said eventually. “Why are you doing this? I mean, you barely know us. You could have walked away after the hospital, and no one would have blamed you. But you’re here, sitting in my kitchen, drinking terrible coffee, and listening to my problems. Why?”
Marcus considered the question. He could give the easy answer, that Ethan’s courage had impressed him, that he felt responsible for almost being part of a tragedy. But Thomas deserved better than platitudes.
“Because when I was Ethan’s age, nobody showed up,” Marcus said. “And I don’t want Ethan to believe that the world is full of people who’ll promise things they have no intention of delivering. I want him to know that sometimes adults do keep their promises.”
Thomas’s eyes were suspiciously bright. “Thank you for being here, for being someone Ethan can… I don’t know, look up to? Model himself after? You’re showing him what it looks like to be a man who keeps his word, and I can’t tell you how much that means.”
The words settled in Marcus’s chest with unexpected weight. Model himself after. When had Marcus Brennan become someone worth modeling anything after? The idea was almost laughable. A biker with a criminal record, a man who’d spent decades running from responsibility, suddenly cast as a role model for a young boy. But maybe that was the point. Maybe redemption wasn’t about erasing the past. Maybe it was about choosing, in this moment and every moment after, to be someone worth looking up to.
Ethan appeared in the kitchen doorway, clutching a worn notebook. “Marcus, I drew pictures of your motorcycle. Want to see?”
Marcus accepted the notebook and flipped through pages of surprisingly detailed sketches. Ethan had captured the Harley from multiple angles, adding flourishes and modifications that showed real imagination. The kid had talent.
“These are good,” Marcus said, genuinely impressed. “You take art classes or something?”
“No, I just like drawing. Dad says art doesn’t pay bills though.” Thomas winced. “I didn’t mean it like that, buddy. I just meant—”
“It’s okay, Dad.” Ethan’s voice was matter-of-fact, too mature for an eight-year-old. “I know we don’t have money for extra stuff. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. Marcus could see it in the way Ethan’s shoulders hunched slightly, in the careful way he held the notebook, as if expecting it to be dismissed as unimportant.
“Tell you what,” Marcus said, an idea forming. “I’ve got a friend who owns a custom paint shop. He does designs for bikes, cars, all kinds of stuff. Maybe I could get him to show you some techniques. Would you be interested in that?”