Paint.
The paint on her fingertips is what truly sucker punched me in the gut. It was one of those defining moments for me. Like in the cheesy Netflix romance movies Aunt Darcy watches a lot. Boy meets girl. Sparks fly. Sparks fucking flew.
An artist.
Like me.
Once again, shame creeps up my spine. My art got me arrested more times than I can count. Apparently, the residents of Duncan don’t see my graffiti on the sides of abandoned buildings as art.
“Try it now,” Dave hollers out, once again drawing me from my thoughts.
I turn the engine over, and this time it catches. He unhooks the cables and shuts both hoods. With a jovial wave, he gets back inside his car and takes off.
God, I am such a loser.
After a long day of classes and work, I’m tired as hell and feeling quite sorry for myself. I drive out of the campus parking lot and get on the highway for the twenty-minute drive from Ashton Hills to Duncan. It’s pitch-dark outside, and I remain watchful for deer, despite how exhausted I am. The last thing I need is to total my already piece of shit and be unable to get to my job.
All too quickly, I’m pulling into our trailer park, headed to our lot. It’s the same trailer I watched—thank fuck I don’t remember—my mother overdose in. The same trailer my dad raised me in. The same trailer I can’t wait to get the hell moved out of.
As I drive closer, I cringe to see Dad’s navy blue 2003 Chevy Silverado backed into the only parking spot. I park on the street and let out a heavy sigh. Usually, he’s out at Duncan D’s or one of the other three bars in town. I don’t know why he’s home and I don’t have the energy to deal with him today.
It’s inevitable, though.
With him, the confrontation is always waiting for me. Just once, I wish he’d back the hell away and leave me alone. Grumbling, I shoulder my backpack and head toward the front door. The lawn was recently cut by me, because I know Dad hates it when it gets “trashy” as he calls it. We’re the only trailer in this park that doesn’t have weeds overtaking the yard.
I can hear music playing inside as I approach, which has some of the tension leaving my shoulders. When Dad’s mellow, he plays his acoustic guitar. Maybe we can be amicable and I can escape to my room. As soon as I push through the front door, and see the bottle of whiskey sitting on top of the table in front of him, I know tonight we’re going to fucking fight.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, as I shut the door quietly behind me. He hates it when I slam doors, which is really damn ironic since he’s the champion door slammer. Hoping to avoid an altercation, I start toward the hallway to my oasis.
“Boy.”
He halts me with one word. Tightening my grip on my backpack shoulder strap, I turn to face him.
“Yes, sir?”
His bloodshot green eyes narrow as he regards me. To any other human, especially women, my father is an attractive guy: taller and more muscular than me, with a youthful, handsome face. When he smiles, people smile back. With his guitar in his lap and wearing only holey jeans and a white wifebeater, he looks like some famous country singer in a video.
But Dad is nothing more than a sad country song.
He just sings the same verse over and over again.
You’re a worthless, goddamn piece of shit.
I don’t even have to hear the words tumble past his lips. They linger, unspoken, in the air. They lash at me like whips, cutting into emotional scars from years past.
“Heard you were down at Darcy’s today. You stayin’ outta trouble?” His voice is deceptively calm. The calm before the motherfucking storm.
“Just visiting my aunt,” I say through clenched teeth. Darcy and Dad are amicable to each other because she was my mother’s sister. But they don’t like each other.
“You look high,” he growls out, his thumb lightly strumming through a few chords.
“I’m not—”
His head snaps up and he glowers at me. “You don’t think I know what high fucking looks like, boy?”
I cringe and wait for it. It’s always coming.
“She’d still be here if it weren’t for you,” he snaps, setting his guitar beside him on the ratty sofa that’s seen better days. He rises to his feet, wobbles slightly, and it takes everything in me not to run to my bedroom like a scared little boy.
I’m almost twenty years old.
Old enough to get out from under my old man’s mean thumb.
But I sentenced myself to this hell when I accepted his money. Money for college. Money I knew would come with more strings than I could ever untangle myself from.