Wrecked

by Jeannine Colette

  “To feed you.”

  I put my hand on his bicep. The barbed veins are pushing against his velvet skin.

  “No. I’m okay. I’ll have something when I get home.”

  His arm tenses beneath my hand, so I quickly remove it.

  He steadies the car in the far right lane. “You sure?”

  “Yes. Thank you. That was…very nice of you.”

  His jaw is tight. His knuckles are white against the black steering wheel. It’s not like he’s scared or anything. It’s like he’s holding on to that wheel for control, afraid to let it go. His chest rises high and falls, the grip loosening with the exhale. He parts his lips. His mouth opens and closes and then opens once more.

  “I shouldn’t have gotten so mad earlier.”

  He’s right; he shouldn’t have. I agree in silence.

  He adds, “But you shouldn’t have tested me the way you did.”

  I practically bolt out of my seat. “Why does everything I do piss you off so much?”

  He’s glaring at the road as he drives in complete silence. With a humph, I slam my back into my seat and fold my arms across my body. The cool cab that felt like nirvana minutes ago is now like the Arctic tundra. I rub my arms to tame the forming goose bumps.

  “It’s so cold in here. I feel like a corpse.” My body starts to shake.

  “That’s a terrible comparison.”

  Leaning forward, I lower the air conditioner. He goes to put it up again, but I smack his hand away. Without a care, he moves my hand out of the way and puts the air on again.

  “You are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. As soon as these hours are up, I never want to see you again!”

  “Same here, sweetheart. One hundred can’t come fast enough.”

  “You know, you could make this go faster. Just pretend I served my time.”

  He shakes his head. “And let you off the hook that easy?”

  “I wasn’t the one driving!” I shout. “When are you going to get off your ass and actually look for Victoria? She’s been missing for a week, and no one seems to give a shit.”

  “Why do you? If she really did crash and bolt, you should be happy she’s off somewhere, getting high and dying in a corner.”

  “Just because she’s a bitch doesn’t mean she deserves to get hurt. She should be in rehab getting help.”

  Adam lets out an audible gasp of air. His chest falls as his grip lightens on the wheel. “No, it doesn’t.”

  I let out a heavy breath and turn away from him.

  I know I’m a good person, yet he seems to try to knock me down every time. It’s the stares, the glares. The way he looks when he sees me out with my friends and bites his jaw. How he purposefully walks over when I’m pumping gas to make sure my registration and inspection are up-to-date because I’m incapable of doing so on my own. At least once a week, I catch him following me in his cruiser, trying to catch me speeding or running a red light. It’s in the way he’s always giving disapproving looks at my attire and the way he practically stalks my friends and gives them hell when they step out of line in the slightest. He’s been the bane of my existence for seven years, but if he thinks he’s going to tear this girl down, then he has another thing coming to him.

  “We dissect failure a lot more than we dissect success,” I say toward my window.

  “Those are profound words.”

  “They’re McConaughey’s words,” I say. I see his mouth start to move, so I hold my hand up to halt him from uttering a word. “Before you make some snide comment about how I’m not smart enough to come up with my own quote, let me just tell you that I’m sick of it—sick of you always finding the flaws in me instead of noticing anything good. I don’t need your approval, but I certainly don’t want your condescension either. I’m tired of trying to show you how spectacular I am. Because I’m pretty damn amazing in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Adam exits off the highway, and I try to keep my lip from quivering. I look at the dashboard, the floor, the seat that I’m on. I look at anything but him. The inside of his truck is freaking pristine. It defeats the purpose of having this kind of car. It’s supposed to be messy and stained. But, no, not Adam Reingold. He has to have the squeaky clean pickup. The squeakiest, cleanest pickup in all of Ohio.

  I hate him.

  And I hate his truck.

  We turn onto my street, and as soon as he pulls up to my house, my hand is on the handle.

  I’m out of the car, but before I close the door, he calls my name, “Leah.”

  I stop, my hand on the metal frame. I’m standing in the open area between the door and the car. I don’t want to look at him. So, I don’t. I stare at the black pavement beneath my feet. He’s not talking. But he called my name, so obviously he has something to say, but he’s not.

  Despite my better judgment, I look up. Those coal-like irises are slightly glazed, and he’s biting his damn lip.

  “We dissect failure a lot more than we dissect success,” he says.

  I furrow my brows.

  He places his elbow on the center console and leans toward me. “What you did today? That was…great.” His voice is deep, low, and full of meaning.

  My heart drops a little into my stomach. I look to the side and breathe in to make sure I’m not showing him how much that simple admission means to me.

  Or how confused it makes me.

  Stepping aside, I close the door. It’s probably not the correct response to his words, but it’s what I did. I turn around and try not to trip up the walkway to my house. His truck is still on the curb as I climb the stairs to my house, insert my key into the lock, and then open the door.

  I walk inside, close the door behind me, and press my back up against it. I’m inside for what feels like an eternity before I hear him drive away. Lightly banging my head against the door, I try to figure out why my skin is tingling and why my heart is beating so strong that I feel like it’s going to pump right out of my skin.

  “Leah, is that you?” Dad asks from somewhere in the house.

  I push off the door, give myself a shake, and follow the sound of his voice into the kitchen. He’s standing over a saucepan, measuring cups of sugar.

  “Taffy time?” I kick off my sneakers and take a seat at the counter.

  “You betcha. I could use a hand.” He motions toward a pan on the counter of taffy that is being cooled.

  Not one to argue with Bob Paige, I get up, wash my hands, and then take my seat again. I pull the pan toward me and feel the taffy that is cool to the touch.

  He mixes the sugar and cornstarch in a pan while I pull the taffy from another. I’m cutting it into one-inch strips. With every cut, I think of how Adam gave my words right back to me. Maybe I’m the one who has been dissecting his failures all this time, assuming the worst and accusing him of being the bad guy. If so, I’m just as villainous as he is.

  “Everything okay?” Dad asks, pouring corn syrup into the pan.

  “Am I a flake?” I ask while cutting.

  “You’re gonna have to clarify that for me.”

  “No, sweetie, you’re not a flake at all, is what you were supposed to say.”

  “What I’m supposed to say and what I will say are two very different things. What’s bothering you?” He’s mixing the ingredients in a pan over the flame.

  I pull a piece of the cut taffy and feel its sticky texture. “I know I appear shallow and indecisive. Part of it is genuinely me. I don’t like to take life too seriously. And I have fun. Life is fun, you know?”

  “It’s one of your greatest qualities.”

  I smash the taffy in my hand. “There’s no substance. At least, not to the outside world. But there is so much more to me. I just wish people could see it.”

  He makes a sound of understanding from his throat as he stirs, his mixture coming to a boil. “Sure are a lot of ingredients in this recipe, aren’t there?”

  I internally groan. Way to be supportive, Dad.

  M
aybe if I were Emma and her violin, he’d stop and tell me how amazing I was. Or, if I were the prized son, Luke, he’d list all of his amazing attributes. But, no, I’m just Leah.

  He removes the pan from the heat. “Sugar, cornstarch, butter, corn syrup, even water. Sweet and savory in one pot. It’s complex and simple at the same time. I count the butter as the savory,” he says with a wink. “Pick out a flavor.”

  I drop the taffy in my hand and pull over Dad’s tin of flavors and food coloring. Looking through, I choose vanilla extract and a small vile of orange coloring.

  “Good choice. Orange is a fun color. And the vanilla brings on a taste that reminds me of a warm evening. A strong scent, too.”

  He adds them to the pan and then pours the mixture into a baking dish.

  “It’s a shame,” he says. “It takes so much time to make candy and only seconds to eat. Everyone enjoys it. They comment on how cool the colors are and devour the flavor.”

  He takes a piece of taffy with one hand and a piece of wax paper with the other. He wraps the candy in paper and twists it at the end. “We even dress it up and make it look all pretty.” He holds the candy up in the air. “No one knows there are nine different ingredients in this little piece of heaven.”

  I look up and think to myself for a second. “No, there are eight ingredients.”

  “Name them,” he says.

  “Sugar, cornstarch, butter, salt, corn syrup, food coloring, vanilla extract, and water.”

  “Ah, you forgot one. Love,” he adds.

  I roll my eyes.

  “See? Yet another ingredient no one sees, so, therefore, it doesn’t count.”

  I take the candy from his hand and roll it in my fingers. “Are you comparing me to a piece of candy?”

  He smiles. “You’re more than what you show on the outside.”

  I unwrap the candy and pop it into my mouth. Even though I’ve made it countless times with my dad, I’ve never appreciated what goes into creating it. What the candy is actually made of.

  Leaning on my elbows, I ask, “How do I let people see what’s on the inside?”

  “You’re just gonna have to show them what you’re made of.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “Invite them into your kitchen.”

  Getting up, I walk around the counter and give my dad a hug. “Thanks, Bob.”

  “No problem, kiddo. Now, do you want to tell me where your car is?”

  chapter EIGHT

  “Twenty-five hundred bucks?” I practically break Rory’s eardrum with how high I screech.

  Luke whistles through his teeth at the amount it is going to cost to fix the Blue Whore.

  Rory does everything but roll his eyes at me. “The entire side of your car is smashed in, and the air-conditioning lines need to be redone—unless you don’t care about air.”

  “I’ll drive with the windows open. I just need a motor that runs.”

  He sways his mop of brown curls to the side. “It’s still going to run you about twelve hundred bucks.”

  I lean toward Rory, who happens to work for his family’s auto-body shop. My insurance deductible is astronomical, and if I put a claim in, my premium will go through the roof. Paying cash is the way to go.

  “Is there, like, an I’m-sleeping-with-your-best-friend discount or something?”

  Luke laughs into his hand, his cheeks bright red, clearly amused by that comment.

  Walking around the car, Rory explains, “That is the I-like-Suzanne-a-lot-and-I’m-helping-her-friend discount. I’m only charging you for parts.”

  I fall onto a rolling desk chair in the garage.

  Luke walks over and sits on top of a table that’s directly behind me. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be all right. I don’t mind driving you to work.”

  It’s a sweet offer, but it won’t work. “For the summer. And then what? You have to go back to school, Luke. I need wheels.”

  “Mom will give you her car.”

  I groan. “I know she will. That’s unfair to her.”

  “Or are you just trying to avoid telling her that you got into an accident?” he asks, pulling on my braid.

  I double groan. “That, too.”

  I told my dad I got into a fender bender—not exactly lying—and begged him not to worry Mom. They don’t keep secrets, so he said he’d avoid telling her unless she asked.

  I swivel my chair around, hang my head in my hands, and contemplate how I can get a few extra bucks to fix my car.

  “So”—Rory leisurely slides a rag along the hood of a red Ford—“Sue say anything about me?”

  I peek out from my hands, and Luke gives me a look that reads, This guy’s got it bad.

  I return it, I know.

  A car pulling into the front of the garage causes Luke and Rory to turn their heads and me to swivel. We watch as the patrol car parks and idles.

  The door opens, and I say a silent prayer. It’s not. Please say it’s not. I’ll give my left tit if it’s not.

  It is.

  Wearing his black uniform, Adam exits the car. His hair is tossed back, and those sinister eyes are hiding behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. His shirt is starched to the hilt; there’s not a wrinkle or thread misaligned.

  Adam walks into the garage and stops momentarily at the sight of Luke and me . His chiseled brow is undermined by a softness in his eyes. It’s the same look he gave me last night when he drove me home.

  Rory takes a few steps toward him. “Oil change?”

  “You got time?” Adam asks.

  “I was just wrapping up with Leah.” Rory walks to a computer at a standing-height desk, his fingers typing on the keyboard. “I’ll order the parts, but I can’t without a deposit.”

  “How much do you need?” I bite my lip, hoping it’s not too much.

  He frowns his face in consideration. “Five hundred bucks? I usually ask for fifty percent up front.”

  I nod in fairness. “Yeah, that’s fine. Thank you.” I hand him my card and watch as he swipes away.

  Patting my legs, I look at Luke and let him know we can go. We stand and say good-bye to Rory.

  Luke gives a closed mouth smile to Adam. He walks over to the Blue Whore and evaluates the damage. He takes his glasses off and folds them into his breast pocket. Bending over, he inspects the dents on the passenger side of the car.

  “You forgot to turn your car off.” I’m being snarky.

  Still crouched with his hand on the car door, he says, “Protocol. Always leave the car running while you’re on duty in case a call comes in.”

  I’m standing by the open garage door, my back to the outside, as I cross my arms. “But there’s time for an oil change?”

  He’s playing with the handle on the door when he says, “We have a contract with the O’Tooles. They service all Cedar Ridge police cars.”

  That’s good for Rory and his family. A big-brand Auto Depot opened a couple of towns away. Price competition must be killer.

  Adam rises and puts his hands on his hips, looking down at the car. “Is she fixable?”

  Rory talks over his shoulder, “Barely.”

  “I tried to swindle Rory down to a reasonable price,” I say.

  Rory turns in defense. “I gave her the friends and family discount.” He looks to me. “I thought you made good money over there.”

  Looking to the side, I answer, “Paying off loans.”

  “You didn’t go to college,” Rory states matter-of-factly.

  I hate that everyone knows my business.

  “No, Leah’s got a bigger venture up her sleeve. She’s—”

  Adam’s words are cut off when Luke starts coughing. Violently coughing. It’s such a commotion that I can’t even say he’s trying to be subtle about it. Adam turns around but doesn’t move to see if Luke’s okay. He’s just standing there, questioningly eyeing me.

  Rory stops what he’s doing. “You okay, man? I don’t need to grab the CPR kit or anything
, do I? My old man made me take the class, but I do not want to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

  Luke holds his hand up in reassurance. “I’m good!”

  Rory narrows his eyes at Luke and then goes back to looking at his computer. Adam’s brows furrow as he looks back at Luke. His eyes dart from Luke to me and back as realization crosses his face.

  What he’s realizing exactly is up for debate.

  Rory, unfazed by what is transpiring between the three of us, asks, “Adam, what were you saying?”

  My eyes are trained on Adam, stone cold and serious, as I say, “He was just going to mention how I am drowning in credit card debt.”

  Adam’s head tilts, and I cock a brow at him. There are so many things I want to say to him but can’t. Not here. Not now. And, even if I did, he might not understand.

  Rory starts walking to the other side of the garage. “I never pegged you as an overspender. Guess what we assume about others would surprise us. That’s all right. You’ll get yourself out of it.” He walks back with a bottle of Pennzoil. “Adam, I’ll have that done in fifteen minutes. Leah, I’ll call you when the parts are in.”

  I hang my head.

  Luke gives my shoulders a shake of reassurance. “Come on. Maybe we’ll go home and find some old birthday money lying around. I bet Emma keeps it stashed under her mattress.”

  He’s probably right. Emma is like me, a natural saver. Though our methods are different. My closet is filled with clothes, having every new fad and style when it comes out. The perk is, I don’t need to have the best, so getting the ten-dollar knockoff is fine with me. And I am not opposed to getting something vintage from The Salvation Army. Emma is the opposite. She probably has twenty shirts in her closet, but they’re all high-end, and she wears every single one of them.

  We don’t spend beyond our means, and we know how to go without a few luxuries if it means getting what we want. Luke clearly missed out on the Paige family saver gene and is quite the spendthrift. He can blow through a hundred bucks on McDonald’s and a trip to CVS.

  We walk over to Main Street where we parked Luke’s car and wait at the crosswalk for the light to change.

  A Jeep Wrangler is coming down the street and starts honking at the sight of us. Jessica pulls over and gives us a wave.