Wyatt turns around, scruffy face pulled tight. “And don’t call me. I’ll be trying to fix things with my wife because she’s mad at me over this bullshit with you and won’t touch me. You’ve managed to ruin my relationship by your mere presence, which is a new accomplishment, even for you.”
My brother has held me accountable for damn near every issue in his life, starting from when we were kids. If I had to guess, I’d say it was our parents’ divorce that started him on this road, and my teen years only helped confirm his biases against me. But he certainly didn’t get any kinder once Rory left him.
I’ll admit I’ve made some mistakes along the way, but I try to own up to ’em when I do. This shit with his wife is his own doing, and he can shove it.
“We’re blaming me for that too? You sure it’s not just because you’re a dick?” I offer, only a tiny bit joking.
He flips me off and heads to the driver’s side.
“You still owe me fixing my trunk, asshole!” I’m kinda proud that’s all I called him.
The car dips as he gets in, and then they’re gone.
Sighing, I head into the office and re-review the paperwork he showed me. I think I got the gist of it, but there’s a lot of fucking vehicles, all at different stages of their repairs.
I don’t think I give him enough credit for keeping so many things going at once, this is almost impressive for a guy who can barely string ten words together.
Two of the vehicles here are some of my favorite kinds to work on. An ATV and a dirt bike. The side by side is havingan issue with its alternator, and the dirt bike needs a new crankshaft. I make a plan to start on those first, because they seem like the most fun. I’m not sure that’s how Wyatt runs his business—there was some buzzing in my ears about first in, first out and priority sequences—but while I’m here, that’s my plan.
My mind drifts back to my brother and a heavy sigh sags my shoulders. From Rory’s texts every other day, checking on me and Amelia, offering her support, I know she is happy for us. But I can’t decide if I’m relieved that Rory is on my side of this blowup with Wyatt, or if I don’t want her getting involved in our spat.
They’ve been through enough together, getting him to sort their shit out was probably enough drama for them. She doesn’t need to insert herself into our family issues.
Though at the thought, I’m vaguely tempted to call my mom in for backup. Shealwaystakes my side, but that’s one surefire way to really piss my brother off. It riles him up, the way I always get the benefit of the doubt and he never does.
But what can I say? I’m the baby. I make her smile every time I visit, and he just huffs and puffs. Who wants to hug the big bad wolf when you’ve got a golden retriever right there?
Speaking of, I really should make more of an effort to see my mom while I’m in town, however long that’s gonna be. I’ve barely squeezed in a few dinners with her since I got here, so I make a mental note to schedule something more with her soon.
Plopping down in the old rolling office chair, I pull my phone out to see why it’s vibrating.
Reminder: Firefly lottery
Today at 4:00
Shit, I would’ve totally forgotten today’s the day. Thankful for the electronic brain in my hand, I open up the shop computer and find the website where we can apply for parking permits to see the synchronous fireflies.
Though they’re visible in many areas of the Smokies, parking is very limited, which is what makes seeing them so difficult. It’s all the luck of the draw.
Just because Amelia is staying in one place for a while doesn’t mean she shouldn’t get to keep living out her adventures and checking things off her “Shit to Do”list.
It only takes a few minutes, filling out the form under my own name, putting in my credit card info. Then I do it under Wyatt’s, Rory’s, Lexi’s, my mom’s, and Duke’s. I consider any of the friends Wyatt and I grew up with who might not mind me using their personal info, consult the address book in my phone, and fill out another half a dozen applications too.
Best case basis, every one of us wins the lotto and my card gets a serious workout that day. But there’s nothing else I can do except hope until approval emails go out in a few weeks.
Now we wait.
Looking through the one-way glass out into the shop, bouncing my knee under the desk, I spot my Charger, still in need of some TLC to be road-ready once again.
The one with what better only be scuffs on the trunk and not scratches.
Alone in my brother’s garage, the same place he defiled my one and only prized possession, an idea for some sort of revenge forms. Just need to get through some of this workload and when the weekend hits, I’m putting my brand on his precious garage the way he did to my car.
EIGHTEEN
AMELIA
Weston
