It doesn’t matter what I mean once I realize what I’m witnessing:a clear collision course.
“Watch out!” I call in the nick of time.
Mateo looks up right as he’s about to be sandwiched between the two cars. He leaps out of the way as the headlight of one kisses the taillight of the other with a violent crack and a disheartening crunch. The piercing wails of competing car alarms go off.
I don’t spare Derick another look as I run away from him, from this useless argument. As the two women yell their heads off about new paint jobs and car insurance, I rush to Mateo’s shaking side. Somebody announces over the walkie that they’re calling the police. One less thing I have to worry about.
“Are you okay?” I ask. The confusion, anger, sadness, and panic overflow and flood my system. I inspect him for scratches or bruises, but he’s fine. And he’s still on his goddamn fucking phone! He nods without glancing at me, texting Brandon about what just happened. I snatch the phone from him. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Babe, what are you doing? Give that back!”
“No! Okay, first, we’re at work so don’t you dare call mebabe. Second, this phone is the reason this”—I gesture uncontrollably at the fender bender—“happened! How could you be so careless?”
“It was an accident. God. Chill out. Look, nobody was hurt,” he says flippantly.
“Go home.” My eyes are narrowed and my forehead is beaded with sweat.
“What?”
“After you make your statement to the police,” I say as evenly as possible, “go home.”
“I’m fine. Look at me. I’m good. I can work.”
“No. You’re not getting it. You’re not good. You’re bad…at this job. You’re fired!” Yelling is the only thing that releases some of the hurt hacking away at my heart.
“Seriously?”
“Yes,seriously. That’s three strikes. You’re out!” I shout. Now I’m making even more of a scene. The two women have stopped bickering and are staring at us, but I can’t stop myself. “You’re fired! Get out!” Control slips out of reach until I’m wild, running entirely on raw emotion. “Not that there would be a job waiting for you if you stayed anyway because this place is being demolished, torn down by some sleazy businessman to make a commuter parking lot, so you know what? I’m honestly doing you a favor. Get out before they crush us. Leave while you still can!”
Mateo’s lip quivers. He drops the wand, strips off the safety vest, and shoves both into my chest. I stumble back. He’s out of sight before I even have a chance to exhale.
The police sirens can be heard on the horizon. With nothing left to lose, I stand there like a dutiful manager does in the middle of a dying drive-in, not ready to accept my fate but sure in the knowledge that I’ll have to. One way or another.
Chapter 24
The FOR SALE sign is not where Alice said it would be.
Clouds, gray and menacing, roll swiftly over the farmhouse, and I know something bad—something worse—is already brewing.
I had to leave the apartment early this morning before Avery woke up. Mateo went to stay at Brandon’s, unhappy even sharing a roof with me, the monster who canned him with no sympathy. The well had run dry way before I got to him. I’m gutted for hurting his feelings, but at the end of the day, he caused an accident on my watch. I don’t make the rules. I’m just paid to enforce them. Even when the man who signs the checks has given up.
I was eager to watch another movie with Alice to make myself feel better, fill my hollow spaces with undigested bits of hard biscotti, but that seems less and less likely the closer I get to the house. The dismantled bike has bizarrely reappeared on the porch. One of the rocking chairs has collapsed as if by force. The front door is wide open.
As soon as I stop the car, Alice comes out, lugging garbage bags full of miscellaneous objects. She throws them like they’re javelins into the yard, narrowly missing the hood of my car. That’s when I notice Derick’s stash of tools toppled over on the steps.
“Alice!” I yell, suddenly wishing I’d thought to bring a hard hat. “What are you doing?” I plant myself firmly behind my car as not to end up in her line of fire.
The muttering under her breath grows louder and more frantic. It’s as if she’s experiencing an Alzheimer’s episode, the forgetting filling her with ire. I saw my late grandmother do it once, and it’s always stuck with me. She’d misplace a photo album and become so enraged over the reality that everything she touched was as good as gone.
I approach, hands spread wide and voice calm, a posture that saysI come in peace.“Alice, is everything okay? What happened?”
“Inhospitable! She says this place is still inhospitable! Can you believe that? All that work. All that money. Wasted, gone, done for. If nobody is fit to live here at its best, I might as well leave it at its worst! I’m going to die here anyway. It should feel like a mausoleum. That’ll show them!” She carries a framed painting of the farm outside. I don’t know whether she plans to kick it or chuck it, but either way, I know she’s not in the right frame of mind to decide.
I come up the side steps. Before she builds up the strength to destroy something that’s likely a family heirloom, I tug on the edge and snatch it out of her clutches.
“What are you doing? What’d you do that for? That’s my property!Thisis my property! You can’t waltz up here and decide what to do with my stuff.” Her self-righteousness flares out from all sides. She’s a woman on the verge. I’m the only one close enough to talk her down.
I set the painting up against the railing Derick and I worked so hard to reattach. It was sturdy only a week ago. It took three how-to videos; two sets of tools; and one very long, cuss-filled day. I’m happy when the weight of the painting doesn’t knock over the remaining stakes, even if everything else we’ve built together has been torn down.
