Page 22 of Without You

Pushing the heavy metal up, I find the rusted hood stick and hook it into the circular holder.

Looking at the car, there’s no obvious corrosion or battery leak. Knowing how long he’s had the car, and that I was the last person to replace the original battery for Rhett, there’s no denying it’s just losing its juice.

Detaching the stick, I drop the hood and move toward the passenger seat. Opening the door, I climb in and wait for Julian to turn to me.

Reluctantly, he does.

“Why do you still have this piece of shit car?” I ask him.

“For the same reason you drive all the way here and leave candy corn on his grave.”

I don’t let the wave of sadness at the mention of Rhett, or the revelation of how we’re both clinging to the past, sit between us for too long. With my dad’s words echoing inside my head, I try to compartmentalize and focus on helping Julian with his car and hope that it somewhat shows my appreciation for what happened at dinner.

“He would want you to drive around in something safe,” I state. “This is way past its expiration date.”

“Your dad said I just need a new battery.”

“He’s not as good as me when it comes to cars,” I say smugly. “But he knows enough that you should listen.”

“I’ll look into it this week,” he says.

Knowing he’s already put it on the back burner, I surprise myself and push a little further. “I know a place we can go get a battery from. I can drive.”

His eyes widen at my suggestion, but he quickly schools his face before answering. “Can you just jump start my car, please?”

Unpretentiously, I hold out my hand for him to shake. “Truce?”

“You’re kidding, right?” He rests his head back on the seat, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever you’re playing at with your split personality bullshit, I don’t have time for it.”

Pulling back my hand, I rest it on my knee and swallow my pride. “I’m sorry, okay?”

He stills, but doesn’t look at me.

“Ninety-eight percent of the time, I’m an ass. And I’m not good company when I’m around my family,” I admit. The words come out casually, but it’s a painful confession that sums up my life perfectly. In and out, I breathe in my proximity to truth and try to blow out the ever present ache in my chest. “When I’m home, it ensures that the two percent that’s decent is reduced to zero, and I become one hundred percent asshole. So, please, accept my apology and come with me to pick up a car battery.”

He drops his hand and turns to face me. “I accept your apology, but can you get my car started? I will get a new battery this week.”

I know he’s lying, but I don’t want to outwardly call him on it. We still have to see each other tomorrow, and while I can’t predict my mother’s mood, I don’t need tension between me and one more person.

“What about if you leave it here tonight, and I’ll just have a quick look at it and make sure everything is running smoothly?”

“Deacon,” he protests.

“It’s an old car, let me just check everything is in working order,” I argue.

Huffing, he throws his body back on the seat in resignation and hands me the car key. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” I say while tilting my head toward my truck. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

The drive is quiet, but the silence is comfortable. When we pull up to his house, he’s quick to jump out, while balancing his food haul under his arm.

Leaning over the middle console I wind my window down not wanting to leave without saying goodbye.

“Thanks,” he says as he plunges a hand into all his pockets, looking for his keys. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that. I can catch a Lyft.”

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