Page 132 of That's Too Pucking Bad

I check my wallet. There’s just enough cash to get me a few gallons, so I throw that in the tank and hit the road.

When I walk into the house, my dad’s in the living room, packing a suitcase.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, slamming the door behind me.

He looks up, unfazed. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” I echo, disbelief twisting in my gut. “You’re just going to run off after everything you’ve done?”

“Watch your tone, Zane,” he says coldly, zipping up the suitcase. “You’re the one who made this choice. You wanted to go play house with that girl? Fine. But don’t expect me to pick up the pieces when it falls apart.”

“You froze my accounts?” I snap, stepping closer. “What the fuck, Dad? How am I supposed to live?”

“Figure it out,” he says, his tone flat. “You’ve got your trust fund. When you’re old enough to access it.”

“This is bullshit,” I growl. “You’re punishing me because I—”

“Because you’re a disappointment,” he cuts in, his voice sharp. “You’ve been nothing but a disappointment since the day you were born.”

That fucking stings, but I don’t let him see it. Instead, I square up to him, my fists clenched at my sides.

“You’re a bad father,” I say, my voice low and steady. “You always have been. Remember when I was fifteen? You made me take that cheap shot on the ice because some kid’s dad crossed you in business? You’ve been using me my whole life. And now, you’re throwing me away because I’m not your perfect little puppet anymore.”

His eyes narrow, and for a second, I think he might hit me. But then he just shrugs, turning back to his suitcase.

“You were an investment, Zane,” he says, his voice cool. “And a bad one, at that. So no, we don’t need to interact again. Go live your life. Just don’t expect me to fund it.”

My stomach churns. This is it. I’ve lost everything. But as I stand there, staring at the man who’s supposed to be my father, I realize I don’t give a fuck anymore.

“Fine,” I say, my voice hard. “I’ll figure it out on my own. And when I do, I’ll make damn sure you regret every second of this.”

He walks up to me, ready to leave with his suitcase. “Then get the fuck out of my house.”

I don’t respond as he turns and walks out of the front door.

I park a block away from Caleb’s place. The car sputters like it’s threatening to give up on me too. Gas tank’s empty, my wallet’s a joke, and I’m running on fumes— literally and figuratively. Whatever. I shove the door open, grab my backpack, and slam it shut harder than I should.

The walk feels longer than it is, probably because I’m replaying my dad’s words over and over. “Investment.” That’s all I ever was to him. And now? I’m nothing.

By the time I reach Caleb’s apartment, I’m half-wishing I’d brought a baseball bat to smash something. Instead, I knock. Light at first, then harder when there’s no answer.

The door swings open, and Caleb’s standing there in a wrinkled hoodie, hair sticking up like he’s been rolling around on the couch. His eyes widen. “Maya—” He stops when he sees me. “Zane? Dude, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Yeah, uh, surprise?” My voice comes out flat. “Can I come in?”

He blinks, still looking like he can’t decide if I’m real. “Uh, sure, yeah. Come in.” He steps aside, and I squeeze past him into the cramped apartment. It smells like popcorn and... gym socks, maybe.

He shuts the door. “What’s going on, man? You look like shit.”

“Thanks. Appreciate that.” I drop my bag by the couch and flop down. “It’s been... a day.”

Caleb’s still standing there, scratching his head. “Wait, did you walk here? Where’s your car?”

“It’s down the block. Couldn’t afford gas, so…” I shrug. “Figured I’d conserve what’s left.”

“What the— dude, are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious.” I rub my hands over my face. The couch smells weird, but I don’t care. “I need to crash here. Just for a bit. You cool with that?”

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