Page 25 of Wreck Me

“What are my options?” I asked, putting pressure on my eye sockets with the heel of my hands. As much as I hated to admit it, this made me want to fucking cry, and I hadn’t cried since the first week my mom left and my dickhead dad told me to‘man up and stop being a pussy.’

Repositioning myself to sitting upright, I extended my arm to take the paperwork Dave was handing me.

“Look, kid, I’ll shoot it straight. This car isn’t worth the amount of work it needs done. You’re better off junkin’ this and gettin’ yourself a new one.”

“I can’t afford a new one,” I stated, my eyes grazing over the notes and numbers on the paper in front of me.

“You can’t afford this one either. We can fix all this crap—I can give you a hefty discount, put you on a payment plan even though we don’t normally do ‘em—but you’ll be back in here soon enough with another list of things for us to fix. The car’s old, kid, and you haven’t been keepin’ up on it. Regular maintenance is important. When was the last time this thing saw the inside of a shop?”

I could feel his eyes on me as he waited for me to answer the question, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from the paperwork I held, pretending to read it over as I avoided his question. My mind raced, but I couldn’t focus on any one thing.

“What are my options?” I repeated my earlier question, hoping my choices would somehow change. Because as it stood, I had no choice. I was fucked, no matter the outcome.

Dave stepped toward me, turning and grabbing the chair. He sat slowly, lowering himself with a care that told me his body ached. Bringing his hand to my shoulder, he gripped it in a way I knew was meant to be reassuring. “If you were my kid, I wouldn’t let you get back into that thing until it’s fixed completely. Do you have any other way you can get around right now? Borrow a car? A bike?”

I heard his words, but the only thing my brain could process was that I wouldn’t be driving my car out of here tonight. Maybe not ever. “The bus,” I stated on an exhale, defeat pouring out of me in one big wave.

“Let me give you a ride home tonight, kid. Shop’s closin’ anyway. Leave the car here for a few days and let me talk to some friends, see if they can pull salvageable parts off other junkers.”

“Why do you want to help me?” My tone was sour, although I hadn’t meant it to be. But with the universe shitting on me, it was also hard to care.

“You remind me of my kid. I didn’t do right by him, so maybe I can do right by you.”

I nodded once in acknowledgement, knowing I wouldn’t get a further explanation, nor did I need one. I had plenty of experience with shitty fathers. At least Dave here seemed regretful of his faults.

“Alright, thanks,” was all I could manage as we both stood. He called out to the other guys who were still cleaning up the garage, letting them know he was taking off. I followed him silently to his truck, climbing into the passenger seat when he unlocked it. I was grateful for the ride home, but couldn’t help feeling like a complete and utter failure.

Just when things started to look up for me, and I was actually proud of how my life was going, I got kicked down again.

And all over again, I felt like that sad little boy being told to man up and stop being a pussy.

* * *

The stenchof vomit permeated the air as I stepped through the threshold of my house and closed the door behind me. Light from the hallway illuminated the otherwise dark space, showing me the lump passed out on our couch again. As I stepped into the living room, I flicked the light switch and took in my surroundings. Vomit puddled on the carpet beneath him, still dripping from his mouth as he lay on his side with his arm jutted out from under him.

The last thing I wanted to deal with after the day I had was this. I rolled my eyes, my head shaking as I fought against the anger sweeping through me.

“Dad,” I said from where I stood at the side of the couch. I didn’t dare step closer–not when I knew how disgusting the carpet was. He never cleaned his messes up properly, and over the years, I stopped caring enough to do it for him.

“Dad,” I called again, my voice louder this time. He continued to snore softly. Reaching out, I gave his shoulder several firm shakes, trying to wake him. “Dad.”

With a phlegm-filled snort, he startled awake with annoyed grunts and words slurring as he came to. “What? Who—er—what is it?!” He tried to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch, his foot landing in his vomit puddle as he did.

I gagged at the sight, forcing my eyes to travel to his face instead, and I watched as he rubbed his eyes, his body swaying slightly despite still being seated. “You puked all over yourself again, and on the floor. Clean it up, Dad. It’s disgusting.”

He groaned and rubbed his eyes, collapsing back onto the couch and ignoring me. I didn’t stick around, retreating toward my small bedroom. What I wouldn’t give to walk into a house that didn’t smell like the bottom of a dumpster and be as germ-filled as one, too. I longed for a clean, warm, inviting space where I found joy in being.

It was coming. I knew it was. An image of Isla opening the front door to our modest, yet beautiful house, waiting for me after a long day at work, filtered into my mind. I smiled at the sight, practically smelling the warm vanilla scent I knew would linger in the air.

My feet led me to my bedside table, where I bent and picked up the phone cord that had fallen to the floor, plugging in my phone as I sat down on my unmade twin-sized bed.

I didn’t bother removing my shoes as I waited for my phone to come back to life. Instead, I sat staring at the screen, wondering how I was going to explain to Isla the reason I didn’t show up was because I was a broke son-of-a-bitch who quite literally couldn’t even afford to keep her safe.

How was I supposed to be the man she needed–a man who she could trust would provide for her one day–when I didn’t even have a car?

I had less than two months left before finishing my degree, then I would apply to the police academy, also applying for a night-shift job with them, while I went through it. I still wouldn’t be able to work full-time while in the academy, but I had to assume the police department paid more than my minimum wage position at the Pack N Mail. Eventually, I could afford another car.

Or maybe I’d be the luckiest bastard in Ridgewood and old Dave would find scrap parts to use, cutting down my estimate.

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