Page 2 of Wreck Me
What was it about him that made me feel like this?
His eyebrow shot up, and he assessed me through narrowing eyes. “It’s really not. Like I said, it was a dollar.”
“Dollar twenty-three,” I corrected, as he turned away again. Without thinking, I reached out, wanting to stop him from leaving. My fingertips brushed against his, and he instantly yanked his hand back like I had electrocuted him. He took a step away from me, his brows scrunched together in a glare. It still looked like he was about to flee, and the air constricted in my lungs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
He grunted, not giving me any more of his time, before he turned on his heel and walked away.
“Wait!” I shouted desperately, following him. “Please, wait a second. What's your name?”
His head shook slightly, but he didn’t stop again or give me the decency to turn around as he spoke. “You’re better off not knowing, Starlight.”
Starlight? What did that mean?
“What kind of answer is that? I want to know.” My tone was demanding, prissy. It was the tone I often used when I wanted to get my way—an art I had perfected.
He ignored me and kept going.
“I’m Isla, Isla Donohue,” I called after him, but his pace didn’t waver as he kept walking down the busy sidewalk. I, however, stopped walking and watched him weave through the bodies, never once turning to look back at me. My shoulders sagged and the feeling of defeat washed over me.
I hated not knowing if I would ever see him again.
My library knight in shining armor.
CHAPTERTWO
Two paper bags stacked full of groceries threatened to fall from my arms as I struggled to unlock the front door of the piece of shit decrepit house I shared with my equally shitty old man.
Almost twenty-two years old and I was still living with my deadbeat dad, who still hadn’t learned when to put down the bottle.
Shoving the door closed with the heel of my worn sneaker, it slammed and shook the entire frame of the small two-bedroom, one-bath roof over our head.
As usual, dad was passed out on his old as fuck, blueish-gray recliner wearing only boxers and a stained wife-beater that barely covered his giant beer belly. His mouth hung open as he snored, with a bottle of Jack about to fall out of his grasp.
“Fucking cliché,” I murmured to myself as I readjusted the grocery bags and stomped into the kitchen. Setting them down on the kitchen counter, I started pulling the contents out of the bags to put them away.
I needed to get the hell out of this house, out of Ridgewood all together. This city had nothing to offer me—it never had. Nothing more than crushed dreams and a broken family. Can you even call it a family, though, when it’s just you and your alcoholic Pops?
Back in high school, I had dreamt of going off to college, living in a dorm, and partying my way through the semesters, just like the rest of my friends. But lady luck had different plans when I received acceptance letters to every single school I applied to, just no scholarships. Guys like me couldn’t afford college, let alone an Ivy, without a scholarship.
So, unlike my friends, I stayed behind, stuck in Ridgewood pushing through community college. Eventually, I transferred to Ridgewood University to finish the last portion of my bachelor’s degree in science. I made it through the years by applying for every grant and private scholarship I could get my hands on and financing student loans for the rest. It wasn’t ideal, but I needed to take things one step at a time. Step one was getting the degree. I needed that stupid piece of paper to get a move on with my life, and I wouldn’t stop until I had it. My degree would get me one step closer to being a forensic analyst. Later I’d figure out how to pay for it.
My curiosity about science began when I was young and wanted to play mad scientist by mixing random things together. But after years of watching true crime shows after my dad had passed out, drunk off his ass, I developed a new curiosity about things like blood spatter and evidence—crime scenes in general.
After many discussions with my high school science teacher on the topics, he encouraged me to pursue a career as a forensic analyst or something similar. I had no idea what it was, but after spending some time researching, it seemed like a solid option. And working for the police department would just be icing on the cake, knowing I’d have a job that’d pay me decently and give me something I hadn’t had in years: health insurance.
Yes, I had officially hit the point in my life where I was looking forward to having health insurance. My current job at the Pack N Mail gave me some money in my pocket and kept me fed, but the owner didn’t offer health insurance for part-time employees, which I had to be, thanks to my grueling school schedule. I had been maxing out my units to try to finish sooner—shave off a semester or more—eager to find a department that’d hire me on and allow me to gain experience in the field.
The closer I got to finishing, the more I daydreamed about which police departments I would apply to. With every hopeful glance at the map, my eyes wandering over different cities and states, the pit in my stomach grew. I would never leave Ridgewood. How could I?
It was because of my dad’s addiction to alcohol that I stayed. If I left Ridgewood, my old man would drink himself to death. He already basically did, killing off a bottle almost daily. Passing out, breaking shit. He was a messy drunk, and there were times I had to clean up his vomit and piss, too.
I hated it. But what kind of son would I be if I left town knowing it would ultimately mean my father would probably die?
I resented the life I lived and frequently wondered what type of life I might have if my mother had stayed.
The preemptive guilt of abandoning my dad had me in a chokehold. I was stuck. He needed me around to babysit him. Do welfare checks and shit.
Life had me by the balls and was laughing in my face, shitting on me every chance it got. It was as though I had a neon sign on me flashing “BAD LUCK STRIKE HERE”, because it was literally one thing after another.
