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I remember how happy she was when he gave it to her, the way her eyes lit up. That necklace was one of the pieces of jewelry I had to pawn the other day. I asked my dad beforehand if it was okay. He said he didn’t give a shit, then took off to the bar.
Life is so fucked up. Sometimes, I can’t even stand it. But I’ll never admit that aloud, being the glue that holds this family together. Although, I sometimes feel like the really shitty, cheap kind of glue.
After I hotwire Dad’s truck, he briefly bitches me out for doing so before climbing in. He looks awful—pale skin, bags under his bloodshot eyes, and he smells like a guy who spent all night doing shots of whiskey with his buddies at the local bar, which I’m sure is exactly what he did.
“You think he’ll be okay to drive?” Londyn asks as the four of us pile into my Chevelle. “He’s super hungover.”
Payton and Bailey slide into the back seat, and Bailey instantly rests her head against the window and shuts her eyes, refusing to speak to me.
“I tried to convince him to let me drive his truck, and you could drive my car, but he’s in one of his asshole moods.” I shut the door and turn on the ignition, firing up the engine.
While my car needs some bodywork, the engine is in excellent shape. It was actually a project car my mom and I were working on before she passed away. It was supposed to be finished a long time ago, but without much extra money or time, I haven’t been able to work on it as much as I want to.
“So a normal mood then,” Payton grumbles, resting back in the seat.
Bailey snickers while I sigh, knowing they’re right. More often than not my dad is an asshole.
“I say we follow him for an hour or so,” I say, “And then, if he looks like he’s struggling, we’ll say we need to make a pit stop, and then I’ll make him let me drive.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Londyn fastens her seatbelt. “You know how stubborn he can get.”
I smile wickedly. “I’ll un-hotwire it and refuse to start it up again until he agrees.”
She only frowns. “What if he throws a fit? I hate when he does that, especially when we’re in a public place.”
True. Our dad can throw the biggest tantrums. He didn’t used to be like that. I think all the drinking makes him temperamental or, well, when he has to stop drinking. And since he’s sober right now … well, there’s a good chance he’s going to cause a scene if we try to say he can’t drive.
Still …
“I’ll handle his temper tantrum. It’s better than letting him drive when he’s too tired.” I put my own seatbelt on then back out of the driveway.
“I wish he’d stop acting like a child.” Londyn stares out the window.
And I really hope she stops wishing so much. Maybe then she wouldn’t seem so disappointed all the time. I’m not about to tell her that, though.
The four of us sink into silence as I pull out onto the dusty road and follow our dad’s truck toward the main part of town. Halfway there, Payton asks for her phone, and I hand it to her only after she promises to behave. Then we all get quiet again, the music from the stereo filling up the silence. It’s not our usual MO to be so quiet. Maybe it’s the whole silent treatment thing, or perhaps we’re all just fed-up with moving and are sinking into our own depressed thoughts.
Sure, this town was shitty and the trailer we lived in smelled like skunk half the damn time, thanks to a skunk spraying it while it camped out underneath the trailer. But I’m sure the place we’re going to won’t be any better. It will be just as rundown, and more than likely, we’ll be doing this same thing six months from now. When I really analyze it, everything feels so hopeless, which is why I never try to analyze it.
Shit. I need to get everyone out of their own heads.
I start to suggest we play a road game, when Bailey lets out a heart-skipping squeal.
“What the hell?” Payton says, nearly jolting out of her skin.
Londyn jerks, too, her eyes blinking wildly.
“My guitar!” Bailey shouts, pointing out the window at the local pawnshop on the corner of main street. “That’s my guitar in there.” She pats the back of my seat. “Hadley, stop the car.”
I pull over near the curb in front of the store and shove the shifter into park. Sure enough, positioned in a stand in front of the shop’s window is Bailey’s guitar. I know that for a fact because she had Payton paint her initials on the front in fancy script.
“We have to go in and get it, Hadley.” She pushes on the back of my seat. “Come on, let’s go before someone goes in and buys it.”
I internally grimace. If the shop is selling the guitar for more than ten bucks, which I’m sure it is, I won’t be able to buy it for her.
I trade a worried glance with Londyn before getting out. Bailey immediately jumps out, and Payton puts her phone away and runs after her. The two of them hurry inside, Londyn and I slowly trailing after them.
“What’re you going to do?” she whispers as I open the door. “We can’t afford to buy it.”
“I’m not sure yet.” I send my dad a text that we had to pull over and that he should stop at the gas station at the edge of town and wait for us. When he doesn’t respond right away, I worry he may have lost his phone, too.
Lovely.
A frown forms at her lips. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
I stuff my phone into the back pocket of my shorts. “Like what?”
“Like give something up to get her guitar.”
“I don’t even have anything to give up.”
She gives me a pressing look. “That’s because you gave everything up.”
I mirror her look. “Then I guess we don’t really have a problem.”
She sighs before walking over to the glass countertops that are filled with old jewelry. I make my way over to the window where Bailey is scooping up her guitar and Payton is sifting through a stack of paintings.
“It’s mine for sure,” Bailey announces as she strums the strings. “See? My initials are on the front.”
“Yeah, I see them.” I swallow hard as I note the price tag.
One hundred freakin’ bucks.
Shit, shit, shit, double shit.
Bailey plucks a couple of chords as she hops down from the window, ready to go, but I stop her before she walks out the door.
“You can’t just take it, Bay,” I say with a bit of remorse.
“Why not? It’s mine.” She hugs the guitar to her chest. “For all we know, the shop owner dude was the one who stole it.”
Doubtful. And even if he did, there’s still not much we can do about it, except go to the police. But considering they weren’t very helpful when our trailer was broken into, I doubt they’re going to be much help with this.
Back in the day, our dad would have known what to do, since he used to work as a detective. Now he rarely helps us out, especially with anything related to the past. Plus, he also hasn’t replied to the text I sent him earlier, so who the hell even knows where he is right now.
“Can I help you?” The store owner, a fifty-something-year-old guy with thinning hair and wearing a floral, button down shirt and board shorts emerges from the back room. He eyeballs us warily, then his gaze zones in on Bailey. “No touching the merchandise unless you plan on buying.” He points to a sign hanging behind the counter that basically states what he just told us.
I open my mouth to say, well, I’m not sure yet, but Bailey speaks first.
“We don’t need to buy this. It belongs to me. You stole it.” She lifts her chin and gives the storeowner a defiant look.
The storeowner rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.”
“It’s true.” Bailey steps toward him, flipping her long, brown hair off her shoulder. “It was stolen from me a few months ago. I think you already know that, though.”
“I’m not a thief, so shut your trap, kid. That guitar was brought in here, and I gave the person cash for it.” He crosses the roo
m, pushing past me, and reaches to take the guitar from Bailey. “I don’t steal things.”
Bailey’s nostrils flare. and her hands curl into fists. While I’m not straight-up sure if she’ll punch the storeowner dude, she has been known to get into a few brawls and was even arrested for one once.
Not wanting to go down that road again, I jump between them, facing the storeowner with my arms crossed. “Look, I don’t think you’re a thief, but what I do know is that guitar is hers. Someone stole it from our house. And now it’s here, and we’d really like it back, so if you could help us out, I’d greatly appreciate it.” My tone comes out firm, but polite. I hope it’ll be enough to win him over. I’m not holding my breath, though. This guy seems like a straight-up douchebag.
“Yeah, I can help you out.” He leans in, and I try not to cringe at the foul, rotten egg stench emitting from his breath. “Give me two hundred bucks and the guitar’s yours.”
I open and flex my fingers. “The price tag says one hundred.”
“Yeah, and I’m adding on a fee.” He smirks. “For having to deal with this shit.”
