As the meeting comes to a close, I stand, turning to Dylan.
“Hey.”
He looks at me, creases forming between his eyes. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet before sliding out a business card.
“Here’s my card. If you ever need an escape from the bullshit, give me a call.”
“Don’t you have your own shit to worry about?”
I huff a laugh, pushing the card closer. “Take it. If you want a job, or a place to run to, call the number.”
Dylan stares at the card, and when I think he’s going to ignore it, he surprises me by accepting it. He gives me a terse nod. “Thanks. Not sure if I’ll use it…but thanks.”
“See you around.” I clap the kid's shoulder before stepping away. My phone buzzing in my pocket pulls my attention.
Ron
We’ve got a problem, boss.
Story of my fucking life.
“Son of a bitch!” I hiss as the damn wrench slips again, my knuckles raking against the jagged metal. Pain flares as I bring my hand to my mouth, keeping the blood at bay. Grease is smeared across my skin as blood beads on my split knuckle.
The tractor looms like a stubborn beast, and fluids leak into the drip pans across the dirt-streaked concrete floor of the barn. We desperately need a new one, but I hate forking out money when we can fix it ourselves. Even with this one being a complete pain in my ass, it’s still fixable, which means we can use the money on something else.
Mid-afternoon sun streaks through the open doors, heating the barn as sweat runs down my back, causing my shirt to stick to me in patches. I’ve been working for the past two hours,trying to figure out why the damn thing keeps sputtering. It’s not the spark plugs; that was the first thing I checked. I’m hoping it was old fuel in the line.
“Piece of shit,” I mutter, shoving at the wrench again. The bolt refuses to budge, slick with oil. The rust mocks me as if it knew I would lose the fight.
The radio on the workbench croons. Tom Petty’s voice spilling out about how you don’t know how it feels to be me. And isn’t that the damn truth? Between last night and this morning’s group therapy session, I can’t sort through my thoughts. I don’t know which way is up. All I know is, I’m frustrated, and this fucking piece of junk isn’t helping.
I stand straight, staring down at the engine while I wipe the sweat from my brow. Every muscle feels raw, exhausted, and my mind’s just as weary. You’d think after last night’s release with my dream woman, I’d be walking on sunshine. But hell, that’s half the reason I’m so on edge.
Leaning back over with a resigned grunt, I try the bolt one more time. As I feel the wrench start to spin, hope blooms in my chest…and then immediately dies when the wrench slips free from my grip. The clattering sound meeting the concrete floor ricochets throughout the open space. And the coil I’ve wound tightly over my emotions finally snaps.
You never showed up.
We never went fishing, did we, brother?
“Goddamnit!” I hurl the tool across the barn. Metal strikes metal, the sound reminding me of gunfire, and my chest heaves. My hands are balled tightly at my sides, and I try to take deep breaths to calm my racing mind.
“You keep throwing tools like that, and you’ll have bigger problems than that damn tractor.”
The sound of my grandpa’s gravelly voice startles me.
I whip around and find him leaning against the barn.
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“Well, I’d hope you wouldn’t pull a stunt like that in front of me.”
He steps inside, moving until we’re nearly side by side. The faint sweetness of hay clings to him, mixing with the bitterness of his post-lunch coffee and his aftershave. He’s worn the same aftershave for as long as I can remember. I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s always been Grandpa’s scent.
“You’re wound up tighter than that rusted bolt, Jett.” He lowers himself onto one of the shop stools. “Wanna talk about it?”
I lift my cap and run my fingers through my hair. “I’ve talked enough today.”
“Group therapy was this morning?”
