Love Me Broken (8 page)

Levi lends me light blue work pants and a matching jacket. I don’t button up the jacket—it’s too warm for that—and I roll up the sleeves. I’ve got my work boots on, and they add another inch or so to my height. Levi is forced to look up at me as we walk around the shop.

It’s a small mom-and-pop operation in a corner building near the pier. A large garage door is open, letting in the fresh breeze, but it still smells like motor oil and masculinity. Levi shows me the work area in the center of the shop. There are a few bikes that look almost like show pieces in various stages of repair and assembly. Then he shows me the shelves of stock, explaining how to inventory parts.

Even though I want to make a good first impression, my mind starts to wander. It starts drifting back to that girl and her cat. And how she lived in that cold and sterile house.

Levi laughs at one of his own jokes, and I laugh along with him, even though I wasn’t paying attention to what he said. We move on to where the tools are stored, and I notice a bulletin board on the back wall. It’s crammed with bright neon postcards, poking over the sides, and looks out of place in the otherwise monochrome workshop. There’s a small desk under it, and I go closer and lean against it, taking in the postcards. Levi quiets, letting me look.

Hawaii. Miami. The Bahamas.

Flamingos, beaches, and bikini girls.

As I’m looking I hear footsteps behind me, working their way down a creaking wooden staircase. I turn and see an older man with a sizable gut and a patchy gray beard. He’s taking the stairs slow and gripping the banister tightly.

When he reaches the bottom, Levi introduces me.

“This is Adam. He’s the one who’ll be giving me a hand through the summer.”

The older man fixes his surprisingly gentle blue eyes on me, and reaches out his hand. I shake it, and he says, “Nice to meet you, Adam. If Levi gives you any trouble, you be sure to let me know.” He chuckles, and I give a polite chuckle back.

“I really appreciate this job, Mr. Watson,” I say.

He waves a hand. “Call me Henry. Well,” he says, and puts a hand on his back, “I’d love to stay and chat, but my old bones are killing me today.” He turns to Levi. “You got a handle on things?”

Levi gives a smirk, like he’s the master of handling things. “Yeah. Pretty light workload. Just a few tune-ups, and Burnside rescheduled for tomorrow, so it should be a good day for training.”

Mr. Watson nods. “You be sure to let me know when Burnside comes in. Although something tells me I’ll hear about it anyway from the General.” He and Levi exchange a look of understanding, and I’m left out of the loop. Then the old man catches me looking back at the board of postcards and he asks, “You ever been to Miami?”

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Me neither,” he says. “Can you believe it? Almost seventy years old and I’ve never seen the sun!” He starts to work his way back up the stairs. “My old bones are freezing. Freezing!”

I turn back to Levi with a grin, and I find him looking uncharacteristically serious.

“What was all that about?” I whisper once the upstairs door is closed.

“Old Man Watson’s ready to retire,” Levi explains. He looks at the postcards. “He can’t work on bikes anymore like he used to, you know? Arthritis. So he’s got his heart set on moving to someplace tropical. Thinks he’ll like it hot better.”

“Some do,” I say.

Levi quiets, not getting my pun, and starts walking me back to the middle of the floor.

“So why doesn’t he just go?” I ask.

Levi hesitates. “Because of the shop.”

I don’t ask anything more, and Levi starts fumbling with the gaskets and tubes of a bike propped up in the middle of the shop. “Hand me that, would you?” he says, gesturing toward a wrench on the ground. I lift up the heavy metal tool and hand it to him. He starts twisting off a bolt, his eyes on it, but I can tell his mind is elsewhere.

Then, with the bolt half-off, he sets down the wrench and sits back, shaking his head. “It’s not fair,” he says.

I’m very careful not to talk. I tilt my head slightly, showing I don’t understand, and he continues.

“He wants to sell the place, and I want to buy it. It’d be perfect—I’ve been working here since I was fourteen. I know all the customers. I know the routine. And I can fix anything.” He grows silent, looking at his hands, blackened from grease.

“Then what’s the problem?” I ask.

He looks up at me and gives his typical grin. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t have any money,” he says. “Mr. Watson likes me, almost like a son, but if he just outright gives me this place, what’ll happen to him? He can’t stay here—he’ll die early. Just look at him. He’s got to have some cash upfront to move south, and I just don’t have it.”

“There’s bank loans,” I suggest, and Levi lets out a pained moan.

“I tried, man. Banks don’t want to loan to guys like me. And this shop only makes enough to get by. I’d never convince them I could pay it all off. It’d only get repo-ed and turned into a Starbucks.”

He lets out a long sigh, and then he picks up the wrench. He begins to explain what he’s doing, the differences between a cheap mutt of a bike like mine and a fine creature like this Harley.

I laugh and pay attention, but there’s a nagging part of me that really feels for Levi. That wants to help him.

The other part, the reasonable part, knows it’s like it was with the girl: I’m leaving, and it’s safer not to get involved.

I stop off at the pet store after I leave Nicole at the coffee shop. I pick up a few kinds of cat food, kitty litter, some jerky treats for cats, and a little mouse filled with catnip. I drop these off at home, making sure Pete has his feeding station set up and everything he might need. He doesn’t come out from his hiding place, and I don’t really feel like being home, so I head out again.

It feels good to be out and moving when my thoughts are so restless. I follow the slant of the town to the waterfront and spend the rest of the afternoon walking along the river, watching the seagulls pitch and dive, staring at the immense shipping boats on the water, and just people watching. Astoria isn’t a huge tourist town, but we get our fair share of invaders during the summer months, and most of them are drawn to the water. There’s a red trolley that runs along the river, and its windows are filled with old couples with outdated cameras and little kids who wave at everyone that goes by.

The shadows are lengthening when I decide I’d better start heading home. The air has chilled and my stomach is starting to gurgle. I’m in no rush though, and I decide to stop at the grocery store on the way. There are a few things I need for tomorrow.

I grab a cart and fill it with eggs, blueberries, and granulated sugar—muffin supplies. Nicole offered to “lend” me a batch from the coffee shop, but to be honest, while their muffins are tasty enough, they are obviously manufactured. I’d feel embarrassed giving such a thoughtless thank-you gift to my mailman, let alone to Adam. Plus I figure I’ll need something to keep me busy at home. I already know I’ll be too high-strung to read or concentrate on a movie, and Nicole has a date tonight with the incomparable Chad. I still don’t know what she sees in him, but maybe that’s the point? Maybe she likes being with him
because
she doesn’t have to care about him too much. Nicole can be surprisingly contradictory for someone who color coordinates like it’s a religion.

With all the muffin ingredients in my cart, I linger in the pet food aisle and pick out a few more toys for Pete: feathers on strings, flashing balls, even a little laser pointer.

This cat will like me. It is not an option.

Then I remember my dad, and I almost smack my forehead for being so stupid. I get out my phone and send him a text:

I found a cat. Please park outside, and don’t go in the garage. He’s locked inside.

I look down at the phone and notice that the last text I sent him is dated March 12th. It simply says, “Happy Birthday.” There was no response.

I use the self-checkout and carry the two grocery bags outside, avoiding the parking lot and taking the back lane to walk along the waterfront again. I go as far as I am able, and then am forced to work my way uphill, past the crowded main street and onto the quiet residential neighborhoods above it. It’s still bright—the light doesn’t go away until past 9 p.m. in the summers—but the air has a calm, end-of-the-day feel to it. There are the sounds of children in the distance, and I try to remind myself that there is more to the world than cars and accidents.

But I find I don’t care. I just want to get away from this place and never return.

The porch is empty when I get back. I go in through the front door and set my bags down in the kitchen. I spread the baking supplies out on the counter, then grab a tin of premium cat food, along with a toy mouse and a pocketful of treats. Then I head to the garage.

At first I see nothing. “Prickly Pete?” I call out. “Dinner time!”

But Pete doesn’t come out. I let out a sigh and set down the tin of food in the center of the garage. Then I take a step back, crouch, and wait.

After what feels like ten minutes, I see movement to my right. I almost gasp. There’s a pair of green eyes studying me, watching me from the shadows under an old table.

“Hey there, kitty,” I say softly. “I brought you some food.” I take out one of the jerky treats from my pocket and throw it toward him.

He just looks at me. He doesn’t even look down at the food. I wait, and a minute goes by. Then he pulls his head back into the darkness.

“Fine,” I say. “Have it your way.” I stand up and make my way to the door. “But I’ve got a whole bag of cat treats that you’re only getting if you’re nice to me.”

I close the door. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out. My dad has responded.

Okay
.

This is probably our longest conversation in almost a year.

I start to head back to the kitchen when I hear a creak on the floorboards upstairs. I look up and realize I still haven’t seen my mom. And that creak—it came from right above the living room.

That’s where Conner’s room is.

Curious, I make my way up the stairs, balancing my footsteps carefully to remain silent.

The lights are all off upstairs, but there’s enough of the red glow of sunset coming through the windows to see things plainly enough. I walk past my door and stop at the room next to mine. Conner’s room. The door is slightly ajar.

The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. As far as I know, no one has been in Conner’s room since his burial. One time, last Christmas, I was tempted to visit, but found the door locked. I hadn’t tried again since then, and it had started to feel like that room wasn’t there anymore.

But now the door is open and I hear a muffled whimpering from inside. I fill my lungs with air and push against the cold wood of the door. It opens silently, and at once I can see my brother’s room, exactly as I had remembered it, exactly as he left it.

By the door is his desk. A few papers are still sprawled there, and a pen sits on top of them. Books and old sports trophies from when he was a kid crowd the low shelves. Then there is a window, the blinds pulled shut. It’s still bright enough outside to send in the red glow of twilight, and for a moment it reminds me of a photographer’s developing room.

On the other side of the room is his twin bed. Sitting on the edge of it, facing away from me, is my mother. She has her hand on his pillow, touching it lightly, as if she might be stroking Conner’s hair while he slept.

Suddenly I don’t want to be here. I feel like I’ve just walked in on something private, and my reflex to retreat is as strong as if I walked in on a stranger on the toilet. This is not something I’m supposed to see. I take a step back—and the floor gives a loud
creak
.

I freeze, caught. My mother jumps and turns sharply to me.

“Erica!” she says, and her gasp is a mix of emotions. She’s angry—that’s the main one—but there’s also humiliation in it. Her hand leaves the pillow, and she uses it to straighten her hair. I think it’s the most attention she’s given to her hair in the past twelve months.