Just hairdressers. I don’t even begin to unpack that statement.
“I want to be a clinical psychologist,” I say to change the subject, turning around to study him as if I’m peering into his very thoughts.
Devon smiles back at me, eyes vacant. Somehow, I don’t think he has many scientist friends, either.
Sadie must be able to sense my dislike towards Devon because she turns on the radio and manages the conversation for most of the drive. Devon seems incapable of not making at least one sexual innuendo or flirtatious comment for every normal sentence he utters, and Sadie doesn’t mind at all.
The drive is only thirty minutes, but I still thought it would be a great time to chat with Sadie and catch up. I wanted to hear how work was going and her family. Instead, I’m trying not to vomit while Devon suggests we all hang out together in a “threesome.” I wonder whether it didn’t just come out wrong, but when I turn around, he’s wagging his eyebrows, and I knew he meant it exactly the way it sounded.
“You two would totally get along,” Sadie insists, nudging me in the arm.
“Would we?” I ask disinterestedly.
“Totally,” she says.
“I can tell already,” Devon says. “Maybe some time over winter break we can all get together.”
“I’m actually going to be pretty busy hanging out with my dad.” I shrug. “We don’t get to see each other very often.”
Sadie glances over. “You can spare an afternoon, can’t you?”
“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. “I’ll have to check.”
“You can’t be busy every single day,” Sadie pushes.
I sigh. “Like I said, I’ll have to check.”
“Courtney,” she complains. “You don’t really want to spend every single day with your dad. It’s winter break. Have some fun.”
“Just because you don’t like your parents doesn’t mean I don’t like mine,” I snap.
Sadie jerks back like I’ve slapped her, and then stares straight ahead at the road. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired from finals.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything. And for the first time, Devon sits back in his seat and stops breathing in my ear.
There’s only another five minutes left in the drive, but the car feels like it’s running short on air, and I’m desperate to get out. We’re driving down Main Street, and I see my dad’s repair shop up ahead. The window in the back is illuminated, meaning he’s in his office.
“Pull over,” I say, pointing to the shop. “My dad is here. He must not have gone home yet.”
Sadie pulls into the gravel drive along the side of the shop and parks. “I’ll see you around?”
I grab my duffel bag from between my feet and crawl out of the car. I turn around and smile back at her. “Definitely.”
“Great,” Devon says, as if I was talking to him.
I refrain from rolling my eyes and wave at Sadie. “Thanks for the ride.”
I watch them pull away and then walk around to the back and pull out my key. My dad gave it to me years ago, but I’ve only used it a handful of times. Even now I could just knock, but I want to surprise him.
As soon as I open the door, however, I freeze.
There are voices coming from the front of the shop.
Usually, I would just assume it was a customer and walk on in, but something about the mood in the shop feels different. The voices are loud and angry.
I close the door silently and tiptoe down the hallway, sticking close to the cinderblock wall.
“Have I not been generous with you?” a deep voice says. “Have I not held up my end of our bargain?”
“You have,” my dad says quickly. “You absolutely have.”
He doesn’t sound like himself. His voice is high-pitched and frantic. I can feel the fear in it.
“And yet,” the deeper voice says, “you don’t have my money.”
“Not today,” my dad corrects. “I will have it—”
“Not. Today.” I hear slow footsteps, and I can imagine the person pacing around the room, hands folded behind his back. “And when was the money due?”
“Today,” my father says. “I know it was due today, but—”
“So, where is it?”
My dad tries to answer but before he can even get a word out, there’s a loud bang.
I throw my hands over my ears and wince. For a moment, I think it might have been a gunshot, but I creep forward and am able to see a fist pressing against the metal top of my father’s shop counter. Whoever the person is, he has big hands and is strong enough to dent a stainless-steel countertop.
Not good.
“Your dues ensure our protection,” the man says. “Without them, you’re left to fend for yourself. Is that what you want?”
“No, no,” my father says. “Please. I just need a bit more time.”
The unfamiliar man sighs. “We all want more time. Unfortunately, we don’t always get it.”
I don’t understand exactly what is going on, but I know I don’t like where the conversation is headed. My father is a good-sized man who has spent his life working with his hands, but he isn’t a fighter. He doesn’t even own a gun. Whoever this person is, I suspect they don’t have exactly the same background.
I inch forward down the hallway with no plan or thought in my head aside from helping my dad.
That’s the only thing that matters.
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