Page 16 of It's Always Us

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I step into the shop, and the metal door bangs closed behind me. The compressor drill zips as Trig sets another tire.

“Hey, I need a brake light check.” Carson’s southern drawl comes from his spot inside the driver’s seat of a white Jeep Compass, one long leg hanging out.

A horn honks, and I reach over to press the button to open one of the doors so Wind can pull a car over the pit.

“Yo,” Slade yells, signaling he’s far enough, and I press the button to send the door back down.

The noise suddenly dies down, and I find all eyes on me. Even Trig’s hands still. The baby-faced, wanna-be race car driver earned the nickname Trigger because he has a trigger finger when it comes to tools, and we rarely find him without one in his hand.

Ugh. Seriously?

“What the hell happened to your face?” Carson asks, leaning out of the car.

These are my friends, my family, and they don’t treat me differently. To them, I’m just one of the guys. But when my eyes are puffy and red, and I look like I haven’t slept in days, these men turn into soldiers ready for battle. Their furrowed brows and somber faces make my empty stomach roll into a ball and bounce around as if it, too, is searching for a place to hide.

“Stop.” I let my head fall to the side in exhausted annoyance, trying to lessen the tension in my shoulders and neck. “Everything is fine. I’m tired, and I have a terrible headache. Now, get back to work.”

Carson’s eyes squint just a little.

“You sure? Because I have no problem kicking someone’s ass this morning.” James, who we call Wind because he drops bombs like it’s his full-time job, asks. With broad shoulders and a slight belly to match, the man places his hands on his hips.

“I’m sure.” I shove my hands in my pockets, uncomfortable with all of their serious attention.

“Is this that time of the month again?” Carson asks with a hint of a smirk, and my heart squeezes at him, lightening the mood. “I’ll buy beer, and we can watch a game tonight.”

“I’ll throw in on that,” Wind says, one dimple peeking through his beard.

“How about you keep your bad gas away from me for a few days?” The guys laugh, and I can’t help but smile.

“Get to work, boys! Wind, you can take that shit outside, or I’ll fire you for workplace indecency,” I hear Grandpa holler, saving me.

Slade, yet to ask questions or speak, only watches me as the guys razz Wind and get back to work. Except Trig, who walks over, side-hugs me, and then returns to the impact gun to tighten up lug nuts.

All morning, it’s like working in a field of prairie dogs. Eyes stare until I meet them, and then they duck away. Each pair pop a peek in my direction and then dart away again. Even Trig’s hands slow for the briefest moments to watch me.

These guys, each of them, covertly inspecting me as if I might fall to pieces right before their eyes. It’s annoying as hell, and they suck at it. The funny thing is, if I broke down in front of them, they’d be running for the hills. Except for Trig, he’d at least hand me a shop rag to fall apart in.

I wipe my hands on a rag and toss it on the workbench. The headache forming in the back of my skull over the past couple of hours is pounding in full force, and I know it’s time to quit.

The rusted, heavy metal door to the garage bangs closed, sending shooting pain through the top of my head and into my ears. Grandpa greets a customer, but his eyes drift to me as if he’s conducting a thorough evaluation of my mental state.

Our morning has been swamped with oil changes and flat tires, but the guys will have to finish up this round. I’m tapping out.

I put my hands over my ears as the compressor drill squeals and pick up my pace down the short hallway to Grandpa’s office. I step in and close the door behind me, needing insulation from the noise.

I fall into his old, worn chair, laying my head on the desk. It screams from stress and lack of sleep. I roll my head to the side, my eyes catching on the cheaply framed posters of Mark in uniform, arm cocked, and poised to throw the ball. The man with the boyish personality and the most handsome face in the entire world. It’s as if his dark brown eyes are staring directly at me. Those eyes that I’ve dreamed would someday stare across the space at me one more time, and last night they did.

I want to tell him I’m sorry for not keeping my promise and how much I’ve missed him all these years, but it wouldn’t change anything.

I rub my temples, staring at the posters, when Slade pushes through the door and slowly lowers his large frame into the chair across from me.The tall, bearded, and tattooed man slumps down, twisting the cap off a bottle of water.

I close my eyes, still rubbing my head. “Did he send you in here?”

He only grunts.

I should have known that Grandpa wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. Now, I have to deal with worried puppy dog faces because these guys care, and even though I know they want to be sure I’m all right, I could handle some privacy.

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