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“How’s it going, bro?” I ask.
“Not bad,” he says, and starts talking about some new car he’s working on. It’s like I never left. My brothers all do this. They know I don’t care about cars but they don’t have anything else to say. So I let him talk while I pull on jeans and change my shirt.
“Liza good? She still working at the florist?”
“Yup. She’s fine. Bugging me about kids.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Eh, you know. We’ll see. Anyway, kid, gotta run. Here’s Pop.”
“Daniel?” My dad says it in the same voice as Sam, like he’s surprised to hear from me, even though it’s been over a month since I left. “How’s the car running?” I roll my eyes, forcing myself to remember what Ginger said: that this is my dad’s way of making sure I’m okay.
“Battery died when we had a snowstorm,” I say.
“In October?”
“Pretty far north here, Pop,” I say patiently.
“Hmm. Well, it could be—”
I cut him off, forestalling what would otherwise be a twenty-minute disquisition on what the other problems with the car might be.
“It’s okay, Dad. It was just the battery. I jumped it and it’s fine now.”
“All right, then.”
“How’s business?” This is the only thing I ever ask my dad about because it’s the only question he’ll ever really answer.
“Busy right now,” he says. “Folks trying to get everything shipshape before winter. And god bless the Streets Department for never paving a damned pothole until it’s screwed the alignment on half the cars in the city. It’ll slow down, though. Always does.”
He pauses and I can hear the familiar soundscape of the garage: the grind of hydraulics, the hiss of the power washer, the clank of metal dropped on concrete. As if in sympathy, the ghost smells of oil, lube, and hot metal tickle my sinuses.
“So,” my dad continues, “you need something?”
“What? No. Just wanted to check in. See how you guys are.”
“Oh,” my dad says. “Well, that’s fine. Uh, here’s your brother, then. Bye, son.”
“Brian?” I ask.
“No, it’s me. What’s going on?”
“Hey, Colin,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“Uh, fine. What did you need?”
“Damn, Colin, I don’t need anything. I just wanted to say hey. Christ.” And just like that, my temper’s fried. Something about Colin triggers it every time. Sam treats me like a dumb kid sometimes and Brian’s almost always an idiot, teasing me about everything from my sexuality to the way I talk. But Colin’s nasty. He’s not teasing when he gives me shit. I don’t remember him being like that when we were kids, but I guess I don’t remember a whole lot from then, anyway. I just know that he looks at me like I disgust him and he speaks to me as little as possible.
“Well, hey, then. I’m gonna get back to work.”
And shit, that pisses me off.
“Oh, yeah, got to go get some hearts and flowers tattooed to match your manly butterfly?” I say, unable to stop myself. Ooh, Ginger is going to kill me.
“Fuck you, you little bitch,” he says, his voice ice cold, and the line goes dead.
Damn.
I splash some water on my face and force myself not to think about what Colin said. I should’ve known better than to tease him and expect anything else. Colin teases; Colin does not get teased.
I finish getting ready and grab my jacket. After the snowstorm, which was apparently a fluke, the weather settled back into something more familiar for October. Good thing, too, since I’m at least a paycheck away from buying a coat.
As I’m walking to the restaurant, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s Colin. As the only other time I can remember him texting me was last Thanksgiving to tell me to get more beer, I know it’s not going to be good.
Keep yr fucking mouth shut. I shake my head. I’m just about to text Ginger to apologize in advance in case Colin gives her shit for telling me when another text from him comes through. I’m fucking serious, you little shit. Apparently Colin didn’t get Ginger’s memo about cursing. I don’t text back. Figure I’ll let him sweat a little. Asshole.
Rex already has a table when I get to the restaurant. He starts to stand up from the circular booth and I put my hand out to shake at the same time, resulting in an awkward collision where Rex grabs my shoulder to keep me from knocking into the table, and I kind of slither into the booth.
“Hey,” I say.
He smiles at me. That slow, warm smile that wrinkles his eyes and shows that twisted tooth.
“Hey.”
“Daniel?” Standing next to our booth is an unfamiliar man of about forty or forty-five. He’s on the short side, with pumped-up arms to compensate, a blond crew cut, and nearly invisible blond eyebrows over light blue eyes.
“Uh, yeah.”
