Revving the engine, I nudge the kickstand back and turn the handlebar, walking my moped forward for a bit before I peel out of the lot. The air changes as I drive down the freeway, filling with the scent of impending rain. I kick the gear up and go faster, weaving through the traffic of Sandpiper, Oregon, as I rush to get home.
My neighborhood is just outside of the city, so even though there’s a commute, it’s not as busy, which I like. The street is simple, lined with outdated houses filled with families and elderly people.
My house was left to me when my parents died. It was supposed to be their dream house. They bought it cheap, and my dad spent his weekends here, slowly fixing the place up bit by bit, which is why I’m still in over my head with needed repairs. It’s still a fixer-upper, even after all these years. Not just because I can’t afford to hire anyone to renovate it, but because this was my dad’s passion project. It just feels wrong to have someone else do it. So I spend most of my off days watching YouTube videos for how to lay tile, scrape a popcorn ceiling, or fix a leaky faucet. It’s slow going because I’m shit at it, but at least it keeps me occupied.
I pull up to my driveway and park my moped beneath the carport. Lightning and thunder clash above me, and I grit my teeth, hurrying to my front door. I slam it behind me, probably a little too hard, but storms always make me edgy.
I leave my helmet, keys, and shoes by the door as I flip on the lights. I go through the living room, kitchen, and bedroom, making sure to close all the heavy blackout curtains to block out the lightning that I know is coming, and then switch on the TV and pull up an app that will play loud rock music to drown out the thunder.
By the time I’m finished, I’m breathing heavy, the scent of rain still somehow filling my nostrils. I grab the lighter that I keep in my kitchen drawer and light some floral scented candles. Only then am I able to take a full deep breath without feeling like there’s a boa constrictor around my chest.
I smell like a bar, but I’ll take that over the storm, and I’m too emotionally exhausted to shower just yet. Slumping onto my thrift store couch, I hold my head in my hands, my fingers digging through my purple tresses as I massage my scalp. My mom used to do this when I was sick or upset. She’d just let me lay my head in her lap while she’d run her fingers deftly through my hair, and it was like she just caressed all the tension away. It didn’t matter what was wrong—a shitty day at school, the stomach flu, or a blow up over my lack of impulse control and violent tendencies. She’d still let me lie right there on her legs while she silently comforted me.
I let out a breath, my hands falling away from my hair, because it’s just not the same. It never will be.
With a sigh, I turn the TV volume up higher, reminding myself that at least I have a new job to look forward to. Maybe this one will bring some needed changes in my life, aside from just the money. It’s a fresh start. Maybe it’s a good thing that Ballpark Brew is closing. I didn’t want to work for a limp prick like Sean for the rest of my life anyway. I’m twenty-eight years old, and clearly, if I’m this fucking miserable and lonely, I could do with some change.
I could also really do with some good luck, but I won’t let myself get my hopes up too high. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since that night nine years ago when a couple of cops showed up on my doorstep and told me my parents died, it’s that life isn’t fair. It usually cuts your legs right out from under you and then charges you for it. But that’s okay. This is my shitty lot in life, and up until now, I’ve accepted it.
Lying flat on the couch, I grab the old T-shirt blanket that my mom made me and wrap myself up in it. People used to tell me all the time that everything happens for a reason. I’ve been looking for my reason ever since. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a peek of it tomorrow.
Muffled rock music and dangerous hope lull me to sleep, and oddly, I spend the whole night dreaming about playing in a sandbox. There are other little girls there with me—I can tell by their clothes, but I can’t ever seem to focus on their faces. The more I try, the sadder I become until I wake up with tears streaming down my face.
I sit up, my back shouting at me for falling asleep on the rock hard couch. I scrub at my face and try to breathe through the echo of emotions still coursing through me from the fading dream.
Fuck, even my dreams are pointing out my lonely loser status these days. No friends to play in the sandbox with me. No one to call anytime there’s a storm that reminds me of the night my parents died.
“At least I have you, Fern,” I say to the poor plant that got saddled with me.
Getting up, I pull back a curtain, letting soft early morning light spill into the living room. That’s enough feeling sorry for myself. Today is a new day, and fingers crossed, the start of a new everything. This job can’t be worse than dealing with Sean, right?
3
