It’s Always Us (Abandoned Brothers #3)

Chapter 10

LEX

I climb in my truck and toss my backpack on the passenger seat as a strong wave of nausea hits me, along with the massive dose of failure. How many times have I been here? I worked so hard for it to be different this time, but pressure and anxiety don’t play games. They aim to win, and today they did. Again.

I place a hand on my stomach and rest my head on my steering wheel. I went in, trying not to let past trauma predict my current ability, but I failed. My throat constricts with shame as the acid rides high, threatening to force itself out. I thought I was ready, but the minute I stepped into the classroom, every bit of my confidence quickly dwindled to nothing.

I crack a window, holding my elbows out to the sides, hoping the rush of cold air will wash away my dismay and the pool of sweat that’s collected in my pits. I inhale and push it out, trying to calm my body and mind. In and out.

I sit breathing, giving myself a few minutes.

When I know I won’t puke, I lift my head, turn the key, and my truck rumbles to life. I use the drive across town to ready myself to walk into the shop where Grandpa and Slade are waiting with expectation. They’re anticipating a certificate that’s supposed to give people written proof that I know what in the hell I’m doing. Neither of them will be disappointed, and both will be understanding, but I’m sick and tired of the sympathetic look on their faces.

I jam my truck into park and grab my stuff, already loathing the next however many minutes this will take .

I swing open the metal door and step into the familiar noise and smell, but today, it’s a swift kick to the last bit of my slowly dying self-esteem. I bypass the board to check what’s on the floor, heading back to the office to snatch a bottle of water, then into the tiny kitchen where I can make a piece of toast. Skipping breakfast wasn’t the best idea.

As I drop a slice of bread into the metal toaster, Slade’s large frame steps into the tight quarters.

“How’d it go?” He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

Not wanting to talk about it or really talk at all, I focus on the bright orange bands warming my bread. “I left.”

He doesn’t say anything, and that’s almost worse. With my frustration and humiliation building, all I want is to be alone.

“You can try again,” his uncharacteristically soft tone jump kicks me in the throat. “Don’t give up. If you want it, you’ll do it.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right. Wanting has nothing to do with it.” The intense ache in my throat grows. I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this right now. Too many things are sitting on my chest, and the weight of it all is about to break me. “Look, can we not talk about it?”

“Sure. Don’t be hard on yourself.”

So easy for him to say. Someday, it’ll be him running this shop because he can actually do it, and be one more dream I have to kiss goodbye.

“We’ve got one needing new brake pads and rotors if you want it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him do something with his arms, and then I catch sight of a flock of balloons. I suck in a breath, turning to see the guys shoved together in the doorway. Wind has a fist full of balloons, and Trig holds a large, rectangular box, both smiling ear-to-ear.

I can only stare at them as my double-reinforced safety system malfunctions, and tears form in my eyes without permission.

“We knew you’d kick ass, so we got you cake,” Carson says with a sly grin, beaming like a proud big brother.

My body is taken over by an inferno from within as my skin pricks with chills. I suddenly need air, but I can’t move.

I glance at the box with the plastic window, waves of pink icing showing through, and I swipe a single tear away. Someone clears their throat, and all four men begin to look uneasy, shifting their weight and scratching their necks .

“Oh, shit!” Carson’s head swivels as he searches the other men. “Darlin’, you can’t cry. Please. We don’t know how to fix that.”

“Shut it, Carson. You can’t fix untied shoelaces,” Slade jabs. “I bet your mama still ties your boots.”

The guys try to hold in their snickers, but it makes me smile just a little. I swipe at my nose as Slade glances in my direction while the others stand there wide-eyed. It’s possible their big feet are inching themselves backward.

Needing to put us all out of our misery, I step forward to peek at the white cake box in Trigger’s hands. Inside is a sheet cake with light pink and purple flowers, and ‘Goodbye Barbara’ written in dark purple script.

I stare at these rough and tough guys holding a cake for . . . Barbara. A laugh rams up my burning throat and bursts out. Their rugged, shocked expressions cause more tears to fill my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. There’s nothing but silence and my laughter as I bend at the waist, the pressure finally easing.

Somehow, these guys and Barbara’s misplaced cake lift my tired and worn heart off the dirty tile floor. “Please tell me you didn’t steal that cake,” I demand when I can finally meet their nervous smiles.

Wind hits Carson’s shoulder. “I didn’t know I had to order in advance, you jackasses. It’s all they had.” Carson’s cheeks turn a bit red with his confession.

Trig raises and lowers one shoulder. “Well, Barbara said ‘fuck off’ and left her cake, so it’s ours now.”

Laughter fills the small kitchen as Slade drops his heavy arm around my shoulders, hugging me to his side.

“You guys are the best,” I say, trying to hold back tears again when Grandpa squeezes into the room. One look at my face, and he knows. Trig hands me the cake, and I set it on the counter as each one lingers, expecting a large piece. I slice and hand them out, keeping my head down and on the task, wishing I deserved their confidence.

As the kitchen clears out and the sound of power tools fills the background, I re-toast my bread, needing it to calm my stomach and disappointment. Maybe new brakes will cure my piss-poor attitude and dwindling dignity.

I carry my toast across the hall to the office and take a seat behind the desk as the old man strolls in and sits in the chair across from me .

“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” I grumble, ripping off a piece of toast.

He leans back in the chair. “What happened?”

I look at him from underneath my eyelashes, needing him not to push or I’ll break.

“I thought we weren’t talking about it?”

“I changed my mind.” This is not the time for his stubborn streak to appear. “You were ready. We spent three months preparing and reviewing all the questions. You knew all the answers before we even started. You had this.”

I take another small bite, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket, but only once. I want it to be Mark, especially today, but I know it’s not him.

Over the last month, our phone conversations, or ‘dates’ as he likes to call them, have become fewer and far between. It’s been two days since I’ve talked to him, except for our five-minute conversation before he fell asleep, and I’d be surprised if he remembered my test was today.

MOM: How’d it go?

I put my phone back in my pocket, not having the energy to try to formulate a response, and she knows I hate texting.

Grandpa sits unwaveringly. I rest back in the chair, ready to get this over with.

“You know what happened. What always happens.”

“Pal, you had this.”

I appreciate his vote of confidence, but he didn’t have to take the test. I inhale, trying to reel in my annoyance. “The questions were different. At least they appeared that way.”

He crosses his arms over his flannel covered chest. “Did you talk to the instructor?”

I push away the other half of my toast. “No. What was I going to say?”

“You could have asked if they had assistance. They have services—”

I stand, my shame and embarrassment morph into anger. “Grandpa, I tried. I couldn’t do it.”

“Alex, there’s a way to do this if you— ”

My patience runs out. “It took me ten minutes to try to read the first question, and I only made it through the first couple of sentences. I couldn’t even get to the bullet point on the first one. I don’t want assistance. I don’t want someone or a computer program reading the questions for me like I’m some inept person. It’s humiliating and demoralizing.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve worked your ass off to get to where you are, and I don’t care if it takes you an hour to read one. The point is you know the answer to every single one of those damn questions. Hell, you should be teaching the class. Don’t let this keep you from doing it. We’ll figure it out.”

I drop my head in my hands, feeling so completely inadequate to do anything.

“Pal, don’t give up.” His voice softens, and it kills me.

“I can’t fucking read! I’ve tried. I’ve worked my ass off, but in situations like that, it never gets better.”

“You’ve worked harder than anyone I know. You should be proud of that and how far you’ve come.”

I scoff. “Yeah, I’m real proud. I’m excellent at covering it up, pretending I’m capable of the most basic elementary skill. When it comes down to it, I can’t even take a test filled with words I use every damn day because I can’t recognize them.”

“You cannot help how your brain is wired, just like people that are blind cannot help that they can’t see.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Pal, it’s exactly the same. Until you recognize that and quit believing otherwise, you’re going to limit yourself and keep from having and doing the things you want.”

My jaw and teeth ache from clamping it shut before things come out that I don’t mean.

He stands, ending his lecture. “I pulled the new brakes inside. She’s all yours when you’re ready to quit sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself.”

I want to punch something, but instead, I shove my hands into my hair and squeeze. How many times have I been here? This was my entire childhood. Trying and failing. Trying and failing again. It wasn’t until I was in high school that anyone even paid attention to the fact that I was compensating for my inability when words became more than I could memorize.

Being diagnosed with a severe reading disability was a relief to understand why I couldn’t make sense of all the words on a page, but the constant humiliation has never faded. I’m great at covering my weakness. Today’s technology and phones have changed my life, but there are times like today when I want so badly to accomplish just one thing. To know that my time and effort are worth it and that I can do it.

I feel completely incompetent, and it takes me right back to all those years of school where I fought for every single passing grade. I wondered how in the world I was ever going to graduate. I spent hours upon hours with tutors and reading specialists, and eventually, Mark helped me with all my schoolwork when he wasn’t practicing. Even then, shame ate at me every time I couldn’t keep up with the most basic standards.

I contemplate calling Mark to tell him I walked out, needing him to listen and not make me feel worse like he always used to, but what’s the point? He’s likely with a trainer, being interviewed, or doing some other great thing with no time to deal with my inability.

I need to get to work and focus on the one thing I’m good at. I’ll replace a set of brakes and rotors while I try to release failure’s chokehold, and the reminder that this is all I’ll ever be able to do.

______

I park outside the apartment building and grab the box of cookies I picked up from the bakery on the way home. After spending all afternoon replacing the brakes on a Honda Civic, I pulled myself together and out of my pity party. Spending the evening with Bree will only help push those thoughts and emotions further into the background where I need them to remain.

Dinner with Linda and Bree is a monthly ritual that started years ago. There was a time when playing with Bree was the only thing that gave me hope that I might someday be happy again. Her big, joyful eyes and squishy, happy face were the only things to remind me that I’d done the right thing when everything in me felt like it was all wrong.

The once chubby baby is now a smart, joyful girl who beams brighter than the sun, and that’s exactly what I need tonight .

Holding the cookies, I make my way to their unit. I knock, and two seconds later, the door flies open, and the nine-year-old with pigtail braids grins up at me.

“You’re here! I finished the model you gave me, and I’ve been waiting to show you.”

The last time I visited, I brought a vintage Volkswagen Beetle model, thinking the little art lover would have fun piecing it together and painting it.

“Really? I can’t wait to see it.”

I step inside the small two-bedroom apartment and inhale the scent of tomato sauce and garlic.

“Hey, Alex,” Linda says, peering through the cut-out in the wall that joins the living room and kitchen. Her dyed dark hair is pulled back with gray roots showing, and her early-aged skin is covered in a thick layer of makeup.

“Hi, Linda.” I scan the small place that’s orderly as usual, inspecting for any sign of things being . . . off.

“Come on.” Bree takes my hand and tugs me toward her bedroom. “I painted it pink.”

She bounces down the short hallway and into her room.

“Look!” She picks up the fragile little Beetle bug and holds it in her hands like a prized possession.

“You did an amazing job. You can hardly tell it’s not the real thing.”

She laughs and turns it in her hands, giving me a three-sixty view.

“I love the color choice.”

She beams. “I wanted to show you when we brought the flowers, but you weren’t home. I asked Mom if we could send you a picture, but she said we shouldn’t bother you.”

“You can send me pictures anytime. I’m never too busy.”

She sets the model down. “You look sad. Want to see something really funny?” She rummages through her backpack.

Leave it to kids to see all the things you think you’re good at hiding. “I’m not sad, I’m just . . . ” I wonder what she sees while I choose my words carefully. “Something didn’t turn out how I hoped it would.” And I miss Mark like crazy.

“Look!” She holds out a piece of paper in front of me filled with squares where she drew pictures inside. “I’m making a comic strip. It’s starts here.” She points. “This girl has twelve brothers and sisters, and she’s the youngest. Her name is Baker. Get it, Baker’s dozen.”

She tips backward slightly, laughing at her own wit. “She loves to bake and here.” She points again. “She’s having them try chocolate dill pickle cookies.” She giggles, showing the dozen gagging and running and telling Baker she’s fired from the kitchen.

I laugh as she runs through the whole strip, describing every elaborate detail. “You’re amazing. You know that?”

She grins, but then it falters a little. “I wish I had brothers and sisters. All my friends do. Mom says she’s just grateful to have me.” Her sad tone and soft-spoken wish punches me straight in the gut.

I put my arm around her. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.” She leans into me. “But, I have really great friends. Slade’s so grumpy he’s like having a big brother.”

Her smile returns as Linda hollers that it’s time for dinner, and I’m grateful for the excuse to leave this conversation.

In the kitchen, we sit at the tiny four-person table. Linda serves spaghetti and garlic bread while she fills me in on her current work issues, managing the staff at a fast-food chain. Bree stands next to her chair, rocking back and forth as she sucks noodles between her lips and chatters away about school and her dance class.

“Can you come to my dance show? You have to see it. It’s going to be the best one yet,” she promises, bouncing on her toes, her arms waving dramatically.

“Honey, your show is at the end of the year,” Linda interjects. “Let’s check with Alex when it gets closer.”

I smile. “I’ll definitely be there if I can.”

Bree grins, showing off her slightly crooked teeth. “Want to see my new dance leotard? It shimmers and has flowers all over it.” Before I have a chance to answer, she’s gone.

Linda laughs. “She’s been counting down the days for this dinner.”

“I’m sorry I missed last month. She’s always a bright spot in my day.” Especially today.

“Well, she’s been asking to stop by the shop to see you, but I know these past months have probably been . . . difficult.” She sets her napkin next to her plate. “You doing all right? ”

My gut pinches tight again, but I remind myself that this little girl is the only thing that matters, and I don’t owe Linda anything. I don’t want to talk about my certification test, and my relationship with Mark remains only between us for now. Besides, I’m not ready to share the news with Linda. If or when the time comes, I’ll have to be sure I’m ready for the fallout.

“I’m ok. I’m busy at work. It’s my favorite place to be, so I can’t complain.”

Linda smiles to reveal her darkened and yellowed teeth. “Alex, you always impress me with your resilience.” You should’ve seen me earlier. “You’re brave.” She pauses, lining up her fork and knife on her plate. “I wish I could’ve been like you. It would’ve saved me from making the biggest mistakes of my life. Ones I’ll never be able to forgive myself for.”

My eyes linger on the tired woman sitting across from me, believing she’s lived a whole life full of heartbreaks and challenges I can’t even begin to understand. I’m certain she lives each day with regrets she’ll never outrun and will haunt her for the rest of her life.

“I’m not brave.” I set my fork on my plate, feeling the weight of that admission, especially after today. “I’ve let fear get the best of me. I’ve hurt people and not been truthful.”

She stares at me across the table. “You recognize it. That’s pretty brave to me. You aren’t hiding and scared to face . . . yourself.”

Her eyes fall to the table again, and I can see the emotion well up behind her eyes.

I smile, trying to defuse them. “Yeah, well, it’s clear I have issues just like everyone else.”

Bree bops back in, showing off her new dance outfit, and we break out the cookies I brought, all of us needing a dose of sugar.

“Do you think you could watch Bree for me Wednesday night?” Linda asks hesitantly, gathering our empty plates. “I have to cover for someone on the evening shift.”

“Please,” Bree begs, pressing her hands together over her heart. “We can watch a movie and make popcorn.”

“Sure. I’d be happy to.” I stand to help Linda clean up the kitchen. After I dry the dishes, Bree shows me her art project from school before I say good night .

At home, I shower and crawl into bed. I stare at my phone, seeing a missed call from Mark. I think about calling him back, but chances are he’s already asleep. He’s always in bed early to be rested and at physical therapy first in the morning.

I want to talk to him and tell him about my day. He was the one person who never tried to fix it. He always helped when I asked and stood by when I needed space, but he never pushed. He never treated me like my struggle to read needed to be corrected. He was ok with me just the way I was.

I worry that might be another thing that’s changed. We haven’t talked about it, but I know he hasn’t forgotten. It’s why he doesn’t text me but always calls. The problem is our conversations are becoming sporadic, and it’s apparent his schedule doesn’t leave much room for anything other than football.

I tap on an app, scrolling. My screen fills with his face and interview clips of him being asked about practice, the upcoming game, and his shoulder. I scroll further, landing on pictures of him inside the stadium with a woman cozied up beside him. She poses with pouty lips and in skimpy clothes—the image of self-assured perfection.

It’s the same stab right through my chest seeing him with smart, beautiful, successful women. The caption says she’s the daughter of the Liberties owner. That should be comforting, but I can’t help the insecurity that grabs hold, telling me she fits by his side so much better than I ever will.

Maybe we just don’t fit together like we used to when he was the high school quarterback and I was the girl who could barely earn a passing grade. I can’t help but wonder if that’s why eight years went by. He’s no longer a kid looking to make it out, but I’m still the girl with nowhere else to go but here.