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Piper
I’m not evensure where I’m going at first. I just had to get away. I knew he was going to chase me and I didn’t have the heart to subject myself to whatever lame brained excuses he was going to throw at me. So I left, I got in my car, turned the key over and fucking left. I’m not sure where the hell I’m heading, but I’m heading there as fast as I dare to go, which is about five miles over the speed limit. It becomes pretty apparent after a few minutes where my sub-conscious is take me. Instead of turning off the main road and going home, I drive in the opposite direction, toward my Dad’s shop.
At first I hesitate, not sure if I should go there. It’s where I want to be, it’s someplace safe and warm, but the childish, irrational fear of displeasing my mother leaves me feeling uncertain for a moment. The rest of me rises up, tired of being pushed around and told what to do. I’m sick of hearing what’s right, what’s acceptable, what’s normal. I just want to be myself for a change and stop trying to please a mother who ran out on me! So to hell with her!
The shop has always felt like home to me. It was the one place where my mother didn’t have any power over me, over Dad or over anything else. My earliest memories are of going to work with my Dad and helping out by passing him tools. He taught me what they all were, what they did, their names. He even taught me how to fill out order forms, though I was too young to write so all I did was scribble on them. Those early experiences alone made me secretly want to be like my Dad and so I watched intently, eager to learn everything he had to teach.
I pull into the lot and stop the car near the door without bothering to park properly. It’s not like I have to worry about blocking customers or the bays, not when it’s so late and most of the town is over at the high school. Turning the engine off I climb out and hurry to the door. It’s a bit chilly out here tonight and I’m eager to get inside where it’s a bit warmer.
Sheryl hated this place and she hated me coming here. She firmly believed it was no place for a young lady, that if I hung around men I’d become one. It was distasteful and narrow-minded and that’s why my visits to the shop were one of the few things my father never budged on. If I wanted to be there, I was welcome any time. For my tenth birthday he made this abundantly clear without a single word. All he did was give me my very own shop key.
The very same one that I insert into the lock now. Giving it a wiggle and then turning it over, I let myself remember how my Mom pitched a fit that year and the memory puts a fleeting smirk on my face.
I sorely wish I had fought harder for my dreams, that I would have told my mother she was wrong. Or at the very least after she left, I wish I would have seen the truth and stopped trying to please her. I sorely wish I had fought harder for my dreams, that I would have told my mother she was wrong or at the very least when she left, I would have seen the truth and stopped trying to please her.
I did the same thing with Matthew. I saw what I wanted to see and ignored the truth that was right in front of me. I was too busy trying to please him, letting him please me, that I let him make a fool of me. I bite my lip, trying to keep myself from crying as I shuffle through the office. Now that I’m here I don’t fully know what I’m supposed to do with myself. I haven’t set foot inside the shop since high school, it just became too painful. Is that why I felt the impulse to come? To allow myself to wallow in all the miserable emotions threatening to come up like a rush of bile?
No, I decide. There’s no need to fall apart. Matthew Pierce isn’t worth my tears! I tuck the keys into my coat pocket and wander into the garage. The scent of oil and grease hits me unexpectedly, bringing back those sweet, innocent memories of my childhood and making me fully realize why I was drawn to my father’s shop. The only downside is that now these smells make me think of Matthew, too. Reminding me of how good he always smells when he comes home from work. I try to focus on the highlights of the great week we had together. The sex was only part of what we shared. There was so much more, so much intimacy and closeness that I’ve never known with anyone else. I fight to remember the deep conversations we shared while cuddling in bed, the way he made me feel like I was the only woman in the whole world, but now all I can see is the image of him holding onto Betty instead of me.
The weight is just too much. I stagger against my Dad’s Barracuda, leaning on it for support. Tears well in the corners of my eyes and I fight them back, trying desperately to regain control. Matthew isn’t worth my tears, I tell myself again, he’s not worth feeling heartbroken over. But no matter how many times I repeat it, I just can’t bring myself to heed those words. The agony erodes my resolve and I start to cry, my sobs echoing in the garage.
The last time I felt this much pain was the day I heard that Matthew was dead.
