“I have a birthday present for you.” Tate’s dad appeared in my driveway, hands in his pockets, as I got out of my car.
I shook my head, feeling the fucking weight of the visit with my father crawling all over my skin. I’d just sped all the way home from the prison, and I needed a distraction.
“Not now,” I bit out.
“Yes, now,” he shot back, turning to walk back to his house, assuming I’d follow.
Which I did. If only to get him to stop busting my balls.
Traipsing behind him into his open two-car garage, I immediately halted with the disaster in front of me.
“What the hell happened?” I burst out, shocked.
The fully restored Chevy Nova that had sat in this garage for as long as Tate and Mr. Brandt had lived here was completely totaled. Well, not completely. But it was a fucking wreck. It looked like it’d been used in a baseball game between King Kong and Godzilla. Windows were shattered, tires slashed, and that was the easy stuff. Dents the size of basketballs covered the door panels and hood, and the leather seats were cut up.
“Happy Birthday.”
I jerked my head over at him and pinched my eyebrows together in confusion. “Happy Birthday? Are you crazy? This car was in great shape yesterday. Now you’ve turned it into a piece of junk, and I can have it?”
Not that I needed a car. Jax would get mine as soon as he turned sixteen and got a license, and I’d be buying another car any day now with the money from my grandfather’s house.
“No, you can’t have it. You can fix it.”
Gee, thanks.
“I figured you might need a little automotive therapy after today, so I decided to break out the sledgehammer and invent a project for you.”
Were all of the adults in my life on fucking crack?
James walked towards me, to the front of the car. “All that shit you feel, Jared…the frustration, the anger, the loss, whatever it is…” he trailed off and then continued, “it’s going to find a way out eventually, and you’re going to have to deal with it someday. But for now, just keep busy. It won’t cure anything, but it will help you calm down.”
Slowly walking around the car, taking in the damage and already compiling the materials I would need in my head, I figured it made sense. I still didn’t feel any better than I had a month ago, and I had no idea what to think of the things my father had said today. If anything, I felt worse now, but I just didn’t want to think about anything anymore.
But Jax needed me, and I couldn’t fail him.
Just keep busy.
“This is going to take me months.” I peered over at him as I leaned on the hood.
He smiled back and then turned to walk into the house. “I’m counting on it.”
So I dove.
Deep.
Day after day. Month after month, I fed off the routine. I buried myself in activity and noise, so I wouldn’t have time to think about anything. So I wouldn’t have time to care.
I stayed in Tate’s room. I slept on the floor.
My mom got sober. Then, she got a boyfriend.
I got another tattoo. Madoc got a piercing….somewhere.
I went to class, and my grades improved.
James and I took a tour of West Point. It wasn’t for me.
My father continued messing with my head. Sometimes I walked out. Sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes we played cards, so I wouldn’t have to hear that motherfucker speak.
The dreams kept me awake at night, but the pills helped.
I bought a Boss 302. It kept me occupied.
I messed around with some girls. No blondes.
Madoc and I started racing at The Loop. Something else to keep me busy.
Jax got a decent home. I saw him every Sunday.
I had parties at my house. More noise.
Mr. Brandt was sent to Germany to work. Tate wasn’t coming home.
They got rid of the Heartland Scramble at Denny’s. Fine. Fuck. Whatever.
Everything rolled off of me, because none of it mattered.
Until eleven months later on a hot, August night when a girl with stormy eyes and sunshine hair breathed air and fire back into me again.