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He’s not the first male customer to be an asshole when I’m trying to help. Some men think a woman working in a hardware store is an idiot.
The bell from the door rings, signaling that someone has walked in. I look up and inwardly sigh, regretting telling Adam where I am.
My brother walks up to the counter, sidestepping the dick carrying the key.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Adam looks around the hardware store. It’s old and looks like it belongs in the middle of a cornfield in Nebraska.
His gaze lands on my blue polo shirt with the hardware logo engraved on the right with a disapproving look. “Why did you quit the diner last week to work here?”
“Mr. Colby said he could get me a job here and would knock a hundred bucks off the rent.” I shrug. “It was a better offer.”
He scoffs. “I bet. He’s taking advantage of you and probably feels guilty about it. Everyone knows no one would rent that piece of crap trailer. It looks like a rotting coffin.”
Adam is probably right, but Mr. Colby treats me with respect and doesn’t judge. Not like my parents and not like he is right now. I can see the judgment written all over his face at how shitty my life has turned out. He’s never had to prove himself to our parents. They don’t question him or think his goals are stupid. They don’t judge him. I’ve always been the one who’s a problem.
“Maybe. But I have a job, a roof over my head, and I did it all on my own.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not a roof, Melody. It’s a piss-yellow trailer with black smudge on bricks. A roof is when you rent an apartment. Renting a room in someone’s house is a better option. Why don’t you go back?”
"Why? So Mom and Dad can harangue at me? Tell me, 'I told you so' after they treat me like I'm some inmate in a jail cell. I can't go anywhere without them breathing down my neck. They hired a babysitter when I was sixteen," I vent, frustration dripping from every word.
“That was for your safety.”
"I'm not going to stick a fork in a socket, Adam. I can eat, bathe, and dress myself without supervision. I don't need parental guidance. I'm not a toddler," I assert, my tone laced with defiance.
"I know that, but you can't alienate yourself from us—from me," Adam pleads.
"You're here." I point out. "I'm talking to you."
"Because I show up. I blow up your phone. I care," he insists.
The guy with dark hair returns with the key to the propane lock and tosses it on the counter. I hand him back his driver's license. He takes it, muttering under his breath as he exits the store.
I raise my eyebrows. “School?”
The bell from the door chimes, and Ariel walks in. Ariel's face suffers from severe acne.
According to Mr. Colby, he's twenty, and his dad owns the store. Ariel glances at Adam with curiosity but then looks away, returning to stock the shelves.
"What time do you get off?" Adam asks, staring at Ariel.
“Closing time is nine o’clock.”
He turns. “I’ll meet you at your...” He pauses, his hesitation palpable. “House,” he says hastily, brushing off the word that nearly slipped past his lips. But I choose to overlook it, too preoccupied with the urgent question burning in my mind. I want to know how the hell I'm supposed to have class tomorrow.
“Fine. Now go before I get fired in my first week and have to sleep in my car again.”
His eyes soften, and pity sets in. Pity is the last thing I want.
After Adam leaves, Ariel walks up and asks, “Was that guy bothering you?”
“Huh?”
I heard him, but I’m not sure if I should tell him that he was my brother.
“His name is Adam, right? Plays football for Ohio State?”
