Daddy stiffens and Mama whirls around, soap suds on her yellow rubber gloves. “What in the Lord’s name are you talkin’ about?”
I throw up my hands in frustration—not at them, but at my own damn memory. “I’m not really sure,” I admit. “I just thought somethin’ was...off.”
I just can’t bring myself to tell them that I was seein’ things. It’s too weird, even for me.
“Anyway, I kinda freaked out on the bartender and the owners. They were tellin’ me everythin’ was just fine, but I panicked and the black soaked into my vision.”
Mama and Daddy share a look before Daddy hikes up his pants, his face stony. I can see behind his wild beard that his mouth is turned down. “I want the address of that bar.”
“Daddy, I don’t think—”
“I ain’t askin’, honey girl.”
I love that he still wants to protect me like I’m his baby, but I can’t in good conscience send my daddy to that bar. Even if I was just seein’ things and they didn’t tamper with my drink. I don’t want him to get hurt. But he’s lookin’ at me with a glare, lettin’ me know he’s not gonna leave me off the hook.
“Fine, I’ll...find it. I’m not sure I can remember.”
“I’ll call up Patricia then,” he counters, and I grit my teeth. How the hell am I gonna keep him away from that place?
Speakin’ of Patricia…
“I should probably go get my stuff,” I say, glad at least to steer the conversation away from last night. “I want to get it over with, and I need my last paycheck to give to you guys.”
“You keep your money,” Daddy says, but we go over this twice a month, every month.
“You know the deal. I already burden you two enough with livin’ at home still. I’m payin’ to help with expenses, and that’s that.” I know he doesn’t make much on his retirement, and while they’ve never once complained about me stayin’ here, I know it has to put a strain on them, so I give the majority of my money to them, while savin’ a hundred here or there to put away in the hopes that one day, I can actually move out like I’ve always planned. Pathetic, I know. I should have my shit together by now.
“Stubborn,” he says with a grunt as he starts chewin’ on a toothpick. “You want me to drive you down to work to get your things?” he offers.
“No, thanks. I’ll handle it.”
I turn and head to the back of the house and into my room, shuttin’ the door behind me before I grab a pair of jean shorts and a mint green fitted tank top to match my hair. I need to shower last night’s ordeal off me before I have to face Patricia.
After that…then I’ll deal with what happened at the bar. But for now, one thing at a time.
5
Makin’ my way down the highway toward Swift Shipping, my hair is down and blowin’ back as my A/C blasts in my face. I have country music blarin’ through the speakers in an attempt to drown out my tumultuous thoughts.
My blue Jeep Cherokee speeds along, passin’ by downtown Sweetgreen as I go. This Jeep has been with me for years, and it’s on its last leg. I took it with me to college ten years ago and then drove it right back when I got expelled. We’ve seen some times, me and this Jeep—both good and bad.
Good, like the time I gave Henry Bane a hickey, and he went down on me in the back seat for a half-hour durin’ a football game. And bad...when I drove home, fresh out of the dean’s office with my walkin’ papers, tens of thousands of dollars in student loan debt, and no degree to show for it. I was just a few months shy of graduatin’.
But no matter what I tried when I moved back home to Sweetgreen, nothin’ stuck after that. I tried a few certifications in the medical field, like phlebotomists and X-ray techs, but somethin’ always came up—usually a lack of money, interest, or both—and I just couldn’t finish.
And here I am, twenty-eight years old, still livin’ with my parents, and barely even holdin’ a few thousand dollars in my savings account. Not nearly enough to get my own place. I’m a failure. And now, I’m about to be an unemployed one.
Pullin’ into the parkin’ lot of the shop, I look over at the attached warehouse on the left side.