The Boiling Point | ✔️

14 | decisions

ASHTON

It's hard to remember a time when my relationship with my dad wasn't messy. I know that time exists, but it's so vague that sometimes I'm convinced I've dreamed it up.

Trying to remember is like watching the memories on our busted TV before you thump the picture right. Static and fuzzy glimpses of what life was like looking through young, naïve eyes.

There was a before. Before the auto body shop, before the violence, before Cloverbrook. Now all distorted memories. Everything after is HD clarity.

"Ashton." Cruz ambles up as I shut the hood of the car I'm working on, toolbox in hand. "Boss said I should take the reins on this one since you're getting nowhere."

Of course. No doubt those words are verbatim.

"I've got it," I tell him curtly, sliding into the driver's seat. "Thought you were doing a paint job on that Civic."

"I was. That's what I'd rather be doing, but..." He runs a hand over his shaved head. "You know what your pops is like."

My jaw tightens as I insert the key in the ignition. "Just go, I'll take the fall if there's a problem."

The car splutters and clicks, begging me to shut it off before the engine floods. I hit the wheel, jerking the key out.

"You sure you don't need help?" Cruz pats the toolbox.

"I said I've got it, Cruz," I snap, and he slowly backs away as if I've pulled a knife on him. My hands instinctively rub my face as I let out a breath, springing back when they press on the tender skin I've forgotten about.

I shouldn't take any frustration out on Cruz. He's one of the few people who works here that doesn't buy into the shady stuff my dad does. Just a good guy who comes in, does his job and aimlessly flirts with the receptionist.

I get out of the car and pat his tense shoulder. "Thanks, though. I'll call you if I'm at a dead end."

He nods and walks off, leaving me with the hunk of junk. I think my dad gives me cars like this on purpose. They're not fun to work on, they're not challenging, they're just frustrating because as soon as one thing is fixed, then a million other problems come to light and you have to pinpoint each one.

It's a setup to fail. To send in someone else to take over because I'm not capable enough, and he wants to remind me of that.

I shut the squeaky door, mentally analyzing the elements I've worked on already and trying to piece together my next step. In a way, this is the type of car that could represent my relationship with my dad.

It's on its last legs. Worn out, a ridiculously high milage, scratched and rusted and on the brink of death. Neglected. The owner didn't do jack to take care of it, he just used it for years until it broke down on him.

The difference is, at least the owner brought it in instead of abandoning it. I can't say the same for my dad. If I stayed in Cloverbrook for the rest of my life, I think he'd run me into the ground and leave me to rot when I eventually broke down.

What's the point of fixing something he'd be happier without? Something that only reminds him of my mother and what she left behind.

I'm getting ready for my next attempt on the bucket of bolts when a little red Chevrolet pulls up in the driveway. My chest tightens, and I drop everything to jog out before it gets closer.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask Charlie as her window slides down.

"Ah, there's the ungentlemanly Ashton I know," she chimes.