Page 73 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

bottle. But they were further gone than me. A lifetime in drug

addiction and four years of using alcohol as a crutch are very

different.”

“I can’t disagree with you there,” I admit. “I loved my parents. They

were very hands-on, and Ainsley and I were never really disciplined

as children. We made mistakes, and they allowed us to grow from

them. Picking up anything as a coping mechanism isn’t even in my

DNA unless it’s a wrench.”

“We are the demons of our parents.”

I sit back, stifled by such a remark, but I can’t argue with it.

My father resorted to work anytime he felt like he couldn’t deal with

life.

Which was very, very often.

Sometimes—and really most of the time—I find myself doing the

same exact thing. When I should allow myself to feel pain and

heartbreak, I instead drive those emotions into changing out engines

and even patching the occasional hole in a classic car body. Up until

now, I didn’t think it was a bad thing or a learned behavior from my

father.

I just thought that when times got tough, it was time to get tough.

“I cry a lot to cope too,” I mutter in the tentacles of the campfire.

“More than I should, I feel like.”

“What’s the appropriate amount for someone to cry?”

“Over a death, I’d say a few weeks. Over some frivolous breakup,

maybe a week or less.”

He nods. “I broke that rule for sure.”

Again, the pondering of Farrah’s role in his life has my mouth

moving faster than my pea-sized brain can tell me to shut the fuck

up. I blurt, “What was she to you?”

“You’ve asked that twice, and neither time can I pinpoint what you

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