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It’s not even that I didn’t know how to help, it’s that Kota knew I didn’t know how to help. She was sure of it. So sure she didn’t even bother asking me. She just went for the one person she…trusts.

Kota doesn’t trust me. If she did, she’d know it doesn’t matter what I have, what I don’t have, what I know, what I don’t. For her, I’ll do fucking anything, including figure out how to right shit that goes sideways.

That’s what I’m doing now.

After a quick stop at Dex’s, I peel up the driveway to the ivy-covered mansion, stopping right outside the garage currently housing Kota’s car. My dad nowhere in sight, I grab the borrowed air compressor from my bed and lug it over to plug into the wall closest to the Lexus’s passenger side. A flick of the switch engages the motor, filling the garage with a loud-as-all-hell rumbling. Jesus.

Dad appears a second later, his face scrunched up.

“Is that normal?” I shout at him.

“Fuck if I know.”

Dex warned me it’d be loud but this shit is deafening.

Luckily, it only lasts a minute before settling into a much more tolerable hiss.

Coming up behind me, my dad remarks, “Looks expensive. Hope you kept the receipt.”

As much as I don’t want to talk to him, he’ll keep going if I don’t.

“I borrowed it from a friend.”

“What’d you say it was for?”

“Pool toys.”

“Smart.”

At least one of us is, I think but keep to myself.

“Where’s the cap?”

Wordlessly, he drops it into my palm. Stupid. So fucking stupid. He’s lucky Kota didn’t notice it missing.

Phone on the ground with the tutorial pulled up, I hit Play, then get to work doing as it says by pressing the tip of the pump to the air valve and holding it steady as the tire fills with air. That makes an even louder hiss and goes on for what feels like forever.

I’m grateful when the air compressor continues to sporadically kick on throughout the process, making conversation impossible.

It doesn’t stop my dad from hanging around, rifling through drawers, touching things he has no business touching.

I follow his every move through slitted eyes.

It takes several minutes, but finally, the tire’s stiff again, hopefully fully inflated. According to the video, there’s only one way to know for sure.

“Is there an air pressure gauge over there?”

My dad’s shrug pisses me all the way off.

“All that poking around and you don’t know if you saw a gauge or not?”

“I don’t even know what one looks like.”

He knew all about tread depth though, didn’t he?

Shaking my head, I push to standing.

So fucking typical. He acts—on his own—with hardly any preparation beforehand, then expects everything to work out a-fucking-okay afterward.