“Thank you, Hadley.” Bailey leans over the seat and gives me a hug. “You’re the best big sister ever.”
I hug her back, ignoring Londyn’s accusing gaze boring into me. “You’re welcome. I just want you to be happy.”
“I am right now. I promise.” She gives me one final hug before sitting back in the seat and plucking the strings.
“Your necklace is missing,” Londyn mutters under her breath as I start the engine.
“I packed it up. Didn’t want to risk losing it while we were hauling out boxes. You know how I’m always losing things.” I shift the car into drive.
She rolls her eyes. “Sure you did.”
I just shrug and steer out onto the road. She may be upset with me now, but she’ll get over it. She always does.
Silence stretches between us as I drive toward the gas station, hoping Dad is waiting for us there. Since he hasn’t texted me back yet, I’m feeling pretty doubtful.
“That guy was a real asshole, wasn’t he?” Londyn absentmindedly twists a ring on her finger.
“Yes, he was,” I agree, cracking my window. “I seriously about punched that smirk right off his face.”
“You should’ve.” She slips off her sneakers and props her feet on the dashboard.
“Since when do you encourage fighting?” I question.
She shrugs. “You’re my sister, and he was trying to take advantage of you. He needed a good punch in the face.”
I can’t help smiling as I slip on my sunglasses. Londyn rarely encourages drama, so that store owner must have really gotten under her skin.
“If it makes you guys feel any better, I totally jacked an art set from him,” Payton announces from the back seat.
Londyn and I trade a confused look before glancing back at her.
She smiles wickedly as she holds up a flat, wooden box in her hand. “It hasn’t even been opened yet.”
So that’s why she hauled ass out of the store.
I really should reprimand her for stealing—she’s already a borderline klepto—but, since I just paid for a guitar that was stolen from us, I think I’ll let this one slide. Plus, it’s not like none of us steal. We’ve all done it before in desperate times.
“What’s in it?” I ask as I turn into the gas station parking lot.
Shit, I don’t see our dad’s truck anywhere.
“It says it’s got pencils and paints,” Payton tells me. “Which I’m in desperate need of.”
I nod distractedly as I make a loop around the gas station.
“Why are we here?” Londyn asks, rolling her window down all the way.
“I texted Dad when we stopped at the pawn shop and told him to wait for us here.” I frown as I realize his truck isn’t here. “I guess he didn’t get the message.”
“Or ignored it,” Londyn gripes in frustration. “Why does he have to make everything such a pain in the ass?”
Because he misses Mom. Because he’s depressed. Because he’s heartbroken.
Those are the excuses I usually make for him, but I’m getting tired of it. I understand that he misses her, that he loved her more than he loved himself. She made him happy, and he thrived on making her happy.
Watching the two of them together was like witnessing magic. I don’t even care how cheesy that makes me sound. I’ve never seen any other couple have such love glowing in their eyes as when Mom and Dad looked at each other adoringly. I used to want that for myself, that magic and the glowing. After watching the absence of it smother my dad in darkness, though, I changed my mind. It’s part of why I don’t do the whole dating thing. Why I’ve kissed a total of two guys, and one was on a dare; the other was a drunken mistake. And I have no plans of upping that number anytime soon. Life is easier that way.
Relationships are complicated. And complications are distracting. Which brings me to the other part of the reason I don’t date.
I don’t want anything distracting me from my goals of escaping this life. I’m going to college the moment I’m handed my diploma, and I don’t need anything or anyone holding me back. It’s already going to be hard enough saying goodbye to my sisters.
“Should we go look for him?” Londyn asks right as my phone vibrates from inside my pocket.
“Hold that thought.” I fish out my phone, crossing my fingers the message is from our dad, telling me he’s parked somewhere in town, waiting for us.
But he can never make things that easy, can he?
Dad: Just got your message. I’m about to pull into that bar just outside of town on the highway. Meet me there when you’re ready.
“Oh, hell no.” I strap my seatbelt on and tell my sisters to do the same, knowing if he steps foot in that bar, he won’t be coming out anytime soon, unless I drag his drunk-ass out.
None of my sisters even bother asking me what’s wrong—our dad is super predictable these days. They simply put on their seatbelts then hold on, knowing they’re going to need to. Because, if there’s one thing I’m good at in this life, it’s driving fast.
Moments later, I’m peeling out with the gas pedal floored. My heart is pumping as the speed increases. I feel more alive than I have in weeks.
My mom used to say the same thing, that racing made her breathe freer and her heart beat swifter. She enjoyed every moment she spent behind the wheel. I’ve been the same way from the moment I started learning how to drive, back when I was ten. Mom let me sit on her lap and steer down our driveway. It was such a rush, and I couldn’t wait until I got my learner’s permit. Although, by the time I did, she was gone, but the magic I experienced the first time sparkled just as brightly.
Driving has always given me a rush, and when I’m racing, all the shit going on in my life sort of blurs away. Unfortunately, I don’t get to race very often since I have to be sneaky about it. Because, while my dad is a mess and barely pays attention to us anymore, he did set one firm rule.
Absolutely no drag racing.
I understand why he thinks we need the rule, since Mom died racing when her car skidded off the road and into a lake. I was there when it happened. To this day, I still remember the sounds of the tires skidding and the splash. I don’t remember much after that, except a scream. My memory is blank of the following days until her funeral, as if my mind wiped the days clean.
A lot of people tried to get my dad to put me in therapy, saying the trauma probably gave me selective amnesia, but he was too engulfed in his own sorrow to follow through with the suggestions. So, we had the funeral, said our goodbyes, and all tried to move on with our lives. But my heart constantly feels broken. And that’s during the day. At night, I’m haunted by nightmares of what little I can remember.
The only time my heart doesn’t feel broken is when I’m racing. That’s what my dad doesn’t understand—that I need to race to keep floating in this shitty pool of muddy, scummy pond water that I’m struggling to keep afloat in. Racing is my only breath of fresh air, my passion, and I’m damn good at it, something I more than prove when I skid into the parking lot of the bar right as our dad is about to walk inside.
A cloud of dirt kicks up and gusts into the rolled down windows of my car and around my dad as I brake hard. He gapes at us in shock. Then the moment the surprise wears off, sheer lividness flashes across his face as he strides toward the car. I know what’s coming next. He’s going to yell at me, make a scene, threaten to take away my car keys. Wouldn’t be the first time.