money to get certified. So he’s been at that gas station doing simple repairs and oil changes and brake jobs since he was, shit, twenty? That’s where he met Mom. There’s two gas stations in town. He works at one, she works at the other. Mom never went to any school past high school. She was pregnant with Saoirse at eighteen, and me by twenty, then got sick and lost the ability to have any more. And that debt was what sunk ’em—the hospital bill for Mom getting ovarian cancer at twenty-four. She survived it, but…it just ruined them. Been fighting to keep their heads above water ever since.” I let out a sigh. “My feelings about what Mom did are complicated, but my feelings about my dad are even more so. I guess…I guess I feel like he oughta stepped up and done something, anything, so Mom didn’t have to do that. I know he worked twelve-hour days. But…I’d work twenty hours a day to keep someone I care about from having to do that. So I guess I resent Dad for letting her whore herself out. And I know Saoirse does, too, maybe more than I even do.” I scrubbed my face again. “It just sucks and is complicated as fuck, that’s all.”
“Damn,” she breathed. “That’s rough.”
“So yeah, I send ’em money.”
She frowned at me. “You sound defensive again about doing a good thing.”
I laughed bitterly. “Most people don’t understand, and think I’m stupid for sending them money. But they use it on bills, not booze or drugs. And I guess I just…I don’t want people to think I’m someone I’m not.”
“Like a good person who takes care of his parents?”
I snorted. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m not a Carebear. I just feel responsible for doing what I can.”
She laughed gently, touched my hand as it rested on the gear shifter. “You want to, what? Be seen as some macho asshole tough guy?”
I rolled my eyes at her. “No, but I ain’t no saint.”
“I don’t know, Saint Rhys has a nice ring to it.”
I faked a glare at her, but couldn’t hold it for long. “Ha ha. You’re hilarious.”
“I try.” She ran a hand over the dash. “You did this one, I take it?”
I nodded. “My first shot at a restoration. My real area of expertise is engine repair. I can muddle through transmissions and I can do simple things like brakes and whatever, but a lot of stuff requires special equipment and tools, especially with newer cars. I don’t do wiring and computer stuff for the new models. I just like the old engines—classic internal combustion, baby. Diesel is a whole other game, and I’m slowly teaching myself that.”
She laughed. “You were telling me about the Jeep.”
“I was rambling again, wasn’t I?”
She held her forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “A little.”
“So, yeah. Anyway. I got this on salvage. Engine was seized, tranny was blown. Rust in the quarter panels and rocker panels and both bumpers, but the interior was nearly mint. It was weird. Like, the headliner is tight, all the gauges work, the stock radio works, floors and upholstery were all in great shape. The interior was pretty much as you see it now. I replaced the seats with new racing buckets because they’re more comfortable, and I replaced the soft top because it was aging and a tricky piece of shit. I did all the bodywork myself, got rid of the rust where I could, replaced the panels where I couldn’t, welded on new steel in other places. Put in a beefy old V8 from an ’89 Suburban totaled in a T-bone accident, a five-speed manual from another CJ. New suspension with a three-inch lift, new tires and wheels, and a new coat of paint.” I laughed. “I overdid it. I could sell it for twenty, maybe twenty-five, but what I spent on parts and my labor time and paint? Eesh.”
She frowned. “Wait, you pay yourself labor?”
“It’s one of those business things. I have an LLC, which just means the shop’s income goes through the LLC, and I pay myself after I’ve paid all the overhead bills and taxes and all that.”
“Oh, right.”
“And how do you like doing restorations?”
“Eh, well? I’d like them better if I could hire an auto body guy to do the welding and rust mitigation and shit. I don’t like that part all that much—I can do it, and do it well, but it ain’t fun for me.