“The Bike Chain”

Derry, Maine – Late October 1986

The garage smelled like old oil and pine needles. Bill had dragged his bike inside after school—the chain was loose again, and he hated the way it skipped every time he pushed off.

You sat on the floor, knees pulled up, watching him work. He had smudges on his hands, grease streaked across the back of his wrist where he’d tried to wipe sweat away.

Neither of you spoke much.

The small radio on the workbench crackled with a slow 80s ballad, the kind that played on repeat after dinner. Outside, the wind whispered through bare branches. Everything in the world felt like it was slowing down for winter.

“You okay?” you asked, softly.

Bill didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the chain as he turned the pedal gently. Then, almost too quiet: “I miss him a lot today.”

You nodded. He didn’t need to say who. Some days just hurt more.

You didn’t try to fill the silence. Didn’t tell him it would be okay. Didn’t ask why. You just scooted a little closer and let your shoulder lean into his.

“I’m here,” you said instead.

That was all.

He exhaled. Pressed his forehead to the handlebars for a second. And when he turned his face toward you, his eyes were wet—but he smiled.

Not big. Just enough.

You reached out and gently took his hand—the one with the grease on it. You didn’t care. You held it anyway.

“Can I stay awhile?” you asked.

He squeezed your fingers.

“Y-Yeah,” he said. “I want you to.”

So you did.

You stayed while the sun started to set and the cold crept in. You stayed as he finished fixing the chain, and when he wiped his hands clean on an old rag. You stayed until his mom called him in for dinner, and even then, he walked you home first, one hand in your sleeve pocket, both of you quiet and smiling at nothing.

And later, when he’d gone and the night pressed against your window, you thought about the way he’d looked at you.

Like somehow, even with the ache still sitting in his chest—he could breathe a little easier when you were near.