Page 13 of Last Love

Mirth remains in his expression. “I would handle all the shit myself if I was back home and still worked in my family’s shop.” He chuckles more to himself than to me. “Work seems like a really strong term for some of those days back then.” After another laugh, he explains, “I handle what I can for Jo’s car here in the apartment lot but take it to Big Roscoe’s for everything else. And he knows better than to try to fuck my girl over, if she has to drop off or pick the shit up without me.”

I’ll admit.

His die-hard devotion to his girl is painfully fucking familiar.

“Anyway, Big Roscoe needs a new mechanic. Hours would vary except for Sundays when they're closed. If you're interested, the job is yours.”

Impressed at his confidence I question, “You’ve got that kind of pull?”

“Big Roscoe owes me a favor or seven.” He shrugs with a cocky smirk that’s undeniably contagious. “Besides, if I get him a new mechanic – or at the very least someone to lend a hand around the shop –, it’ll keep his ass from continuing to fucking ask me every time I walk through the damn door.”

“You don’t want it?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I have a job and fucking love it.”

Unsure of the last time I had a legit job I merely stare on in continued disbelief.

Huh.

How does that shit really happen?

How does someone end up in a job that they actually fucking love versus one they need or tolerate?

And how does this guy – who is probably fucking younger than me – already have all his shit together with what looks like minimal effort?

What if I never get to that point no matter how fucking hard I work at it?

What if I just end up spending the rest of my life like some sort of fucking orphan on the outside of the candy store looking in? Waiting for one person to offer me an orange slice of sympathy or cherry sour of compassion?

What if this is that sweet bite, and I still somehow manage to fuck it up?

The weight of my building insecurities drops my head forward.

Shuts my eyes.

Cuts off my breathing.

Leads to me tugging at my hair in hopes of keeping it together and the increasing craving for a bong hit to soothe my anxiousness at bay.

“You alright, man?” McCoy cautiously asks.

“Yeah,” I quietly croak, though the feeling of my chest constricting is a clear objection. “Just uh…just need a minute is all.”

He doesn’t give it.

And part of me, the part of me that’s growing, and working so fucking hard to change, appreciate it.

“You made a mistake, Collins.”

The familiar sentence pushes out an annoyed huff from my parted lips.

“Or fuck, maybe you made lots of goddamn mistakes. I don’t know. But it also doesn’t fucking matter.”

Cocking my head his direction is instantly done.

“See, the problem is you live with the ugly fucking reality of wondering if that mistake – or those mistakes – will forever be who you are, or if the world will ever see you as anything more. Truth is, it’s not about anyone else. It’s about what you see in the fucking mirror every morning. If you can swallow that?” He innocently shrugs. “Then the rest of the bullshit will find its place.”

“Fuck,” I grumble in additional self- irritation, “am I that goddamn transparent?”

“No.” His face flashes a sympathetic smile. “I’ve just fucking been there.”

Honesty.

Generosity.

Seems like the right type of guy I should be around.

Pretty sure both Doc and Law would approve.

I clear my throat and continue to ignore the tingling request for nicotine that’s doing the tango across my tongue. “Move-in date?”

“This weekend.”

With a final nod, I stand and cross the short distance to the kitchen. “Thanks, McCoy.”

“Don’t make me regret this shit, Collins.”

“I won’t.”

Regret.

Now there’s one word I’m fucking tired of dealing with.

The struggle to move forward with my life may be fucking bloody and brutal, but I’ll be damned if it carries the same burden as my past. As tired as I am of advice coming out of every Tom, Dick, and Kyle to cross my line of vision, the message is solid.

It’s the one that’s staying.

It’s the one I’m gonna keep holding onto.

I’ve been given a second chance at almost everything, and I’m obligated to make it work.

I will fucking make it work.

I don’t always know how or when.

I don’t always fucking understand the mechanics.

But I’m not giving up.

I gotta keep going and figure this life shit out.

I mean I owe that to everyone who’s helped me this long.

Fuck, I kind of think I owe it to myself.

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