Free Break Through by Amber Garza Page A

thought you were interviewing me today.”
    “I am.” He grinned, setting down the other bike. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. His dark eyes sparkled under the sunlight. “While I teach you to ride a bike.”
    “I know how to ride a bike, Carter.”
    “You do?” His eyes widened. “But you said you didn’t get to ride bikes.”
    “Not while I was with him, but before that I had a bike. In fact, I still have it. Want to see?”
    He nodded, looking a little wary. I guided him toward the garage. After punching in our code, the door opened. It rattled as it lifted slowly. Once it was open, I stepped inside, the scent of gasoline wafting under my nose. I scoured the garage until my gaze landed on the little purple bike with the banana seat and white wicker basket.
    “There it is.”
    Carter grinned. “Great. Well, you can ride that one and I’ll ride one of the ones out there.”
    I giggled, trying to imagine fitting on that tiny thing.
    “Why do you still have it?”
    I shrugged. “ My parents are hoarders. They’ve kept all my stuff. I don’t know why.”
    Carter’s face grew serious. “It sounds like he’s stolen too much of their lives too.”
    Sadness filled me as I stared at the bike in the corner. A memory of Dad teaching me to ride it filled my mind. I remembered his smile, his laugh. So joyful, so real. So unlike now. Joy wasn’t something we easily felt now. We’d become guarded, the three of us. Carter was right. Kurt had stolen those five years, but we were allowing him more. If only I knew how to stop doing it.
    “Was all of this your stuff too?” He climbed over boxes and made his way over to the corner where the bike was. Next to it was my old art kit, a box of children’s books and a large dollhouse. I used to play with that dollhouse for hours. Mom and I would go to the store almost every week and purchase furniture and miniature dolls for it.
    I nodded, as he ran his fingers over the roof of the pink house. When he brought his hand back, his fingertips were coated in dust. He wiped them off on his shorts and then reached for the art kit. “Art, huh?”
    “Yeah.” I weaved through the boxes and junk at my feet to get to where Carter stood, holding a pack of crayons in his fingers. “I loved to draw. It was like my favorite thing to do.”
    “But not anymore?”
    I shook my head as he dropped the crayons back into the box. Bending over, he dipped his hand inside and pulled out a sheet of paper. Standing back up, he studied it. “You were really good. How old were you when you drew this?” He flashed the paper in my direction. It was a red flower with a long windy green stem.
    “Seven probably.”
    “Why’d you stop drawing?”
    “He didn’t let me.”
    He nodded, his gaze connecting with the drawing again. “And you never went back to it?”
    “No. It seemed like that was a part of someone I didn’t even know anymore.”
    “But it wasn’t.” His gaze collided with mine. “It was a part of you.”
    “It doesn’t feel that way. I wasn’t the same person when I returned.”
    “Maybe you just need to find your way back to her.”
    I squirmed under his intense gaze. Hugging myself, I glanced over his shoulder at all the stuff my parents kept. Was there a way to find that little girl again? Could I ever go back to that place of innocence and joy? I wasn’t sure it was possible. I knew too much about evil to ever believe in purity and unbridled happiness. That was only found in fairytales. Real life wasn’t like that.
    Carter released the picture and it floated back into the box, landing upright. The blood red flower stared back at me like an accusation. Shuddering, I averted my gaze.
    Carter took a step toward me and clamped a hand down on my shoulder. “Ready to ride?”
    I nodded, grateful to leave this garage. Grateful to get away from all these reminders of my childhood. As Carter and I walked side by side I wondered if perhaps it wasn’t the article that