Again, for the hundredth time, I wish Libby was here. She would know what to say and make the night seem easy. Too soon the road ends, and the moment I pull into our driveway, I realize this will be the first time Dad will see I have my car back.
I got it out of Uncle Jasper’s barn early this morning and drove until I realized I couldn’t pay for the gas it would take me to drive out of the state and back. So I sat in the parking lot of a restaurant that went out of business a few years ago. Just sitting. Not being at home. Trying to think of a different way to learn control that I haven’t tried already.
Now I have a sick feeling in my stomach—worried he’ll take it away again.
As I park in my place under the tree, a coldness sets in. I press my head against the steering wheel and try to be thankful he isn’t home yet. I don’t feel like dealing with him today.
Go upstairs.
Put cleaner clothes on.
Hope he doesn’t come home between now and when I have to pick up Harper.
When did my life come to this? Trying to steer clear of Dad because every time he looks at me, I see how disappointed he is.
“Shit,” I mutter. I get out and slam the door shut.
Bryce comes out of the house, his eyes darting between my car and the road.
“Kale, what are you doing?” he asks. “How did you get it back? If Dad sees it, he’s going to freak.”
I breeze past him. “Just leave me alone, Bryce. I get enough shit from him, and I don’t need it from you, too.”
“You know I’m just trying to help,” he says, turning to follow me. “Do you think I like the way things are around here? Kale!”
I ignore him and walk into the house, heading straight for the kitchen. I can’t remember if I ate lunch but I’m starving. Bryce follows inside, still talking like he gives a crap.
“You can’t keep doing this.” He stands in the doorway and watches me stare into the almost empty fridge. “You’re only making it worse on yourself. You need to stop.”
I slam the refrigerator shut and turn around. “Me?” I ask him. “I’m making it worse on myself? You know I’ve tried to tell him before—he never believed me. And it doesn’t help that you’ve stopped, too.”
He visibly deflates. “You know that’s not true. But this is only something you can stop. I can’t help you if you don’t try.”
“I’m not asking for your help,” I tell him.
I want to scream and yell. Break something until there’s nothing left to be broken.
Including myself.
Is it possible to put myself back together again? To make me normal?
I don’t know if there’s anything I want more.
We stare at each other and hear Dad’s truck pull up to the house. Neither of us move. I know it’s too late to run and hide. He’s already seen my car.
The truck door slams, followed by the screen door.
Nothing is between us now.
I stare at my brother, daring him to speak up. But he won’t. He’s worried Dad will think he’s lying, too. Bryce moves aside to let Dad into the kitchen, keeping his eyes on the floor.
“Why is that car parked out there?” Dad asks. He glances from me to Bryce. My brother shrugs, still staring at his shoes. “Kale? Maybe you’d like to inform me why a car I sold two days ago is sitting in my driveway again.”
“It’s …” My mouth is dry. I can’t think straight when he stares at me like that. “I got it back.”
“With what money?”
“I worked for it.”
He looks between us again. Probably debating on punishing me for something.
But not today.
Today, I haven’t done anything wrong.
With a look over his shoulder, Dad silently tells Bryce to leave.
And he does. His retreating footsteps don’t even hesitate on the stairs.
Dad steps closer and I so badly want this wall between us to go away. He looks over my shoulder and over to the stove. “Kale … I don’t want it to be like this between us”—me neither—“you know that. But the only way we can is if you tell me what’s going on. Please. You don’t talk to me anymore.”
I almost tell him when I look up, but I don’t because I know it’ll just make things worse. He’ll think I’m lying again. He will think even less of me than he already does.
So I don’t say anything.
Dad sighs in defeat. “Just go upstairs.”
He leaves the kitchen. The television sends muffled echoes from the living room.
I sneak out the back door and I’m in my car before I realize where I’m going. The long roads give me too much time to think, so I don’t. Stretches of road go by I don’t remember driving, and my fingers tap on the gear shift, wanting to go faster but not wanting to get pulled over.
The Phillips 66 sign comes up and I pull into the empty lot, parking in the farthest spot away from the door. Then I sit there. Fighting with myself to do this and not do this.
I open the glove compartment and dig out a few dollar bills hidden inside.
Then I gain enough courage to open my door. Once I do, I don’t stop, knowing I’ll lose my nerve and turn around. The sun is low in the sky now, and the evening already has a chill to it—though I’m not sure if it’s just me.
Setting my shoulders, I open the door and the store clerk turns from where a television is mounted behind him. It’s the same person I’ve seen dozens of times but have never spoken to.
Now I walk up to the counter and say with a less than shaky voice, “Can I get a pack of Newports?”
“Do you have I.D.?”
I nod and hand my wallet over, showing him my driver’s license. He looks at it—my birthday, which is a few months premature—and then looks at me. I wait for him to deny me them, because he has every right to. But this is why I chose to come here—he recognizes me and knows something isn’t right. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go this once, because he sees I need them more than anything right now.
“Blue or gold?” he asks, turning his body so I can see them.
I don’t know the difference or the brand. It’s just the first thing I saw.
So I say, “Blue.”
He rings me up and I hand him my cash, taking a penny out of the penny jar. Before I leave, I hesitate while he looks at me funny.
“Thanks,” I say.
Then he understands and nods.
The parking lot is still empty, and I sit in my car, the shadows hiding me like I’m doing something illegal. My fingers fumble with the packaging, but when I finally open it and stare down at the white sticks, I pause.
This isn’t me.
At least it shouldn’t be.
I don’t smoke. I do smoke, just not here and not like this. Not in a convenient store parking lot.
A car full of pounding bass pulls into the Phillips 66, and they take the spot right in front. Two doors open, letting the music into the night, and a pair of guys get out, leaving the rest of their friends inside. I know a few of them from school, and while I’m wondering if they’ll recognize me, the kid closest gives me the finger.
I guess that answers my question.
A few minutes later, they drive away again, their trunk hiding the beer until they get to whatever party is tonight.