The Rift [Daryl Dixon]

99 Problems

I could hear Bobby's feet making their way into the living room, looking at the back of my head like a hawk looks at its pray, and I just couldn't wait for the old man to try and start the same old conversation already.

"So, how's the car coming along?" He asked, taking a seat behind his desk, now looking over at me, sitting comfortably on the couch, with my feet up and a book in my hands. "Need any help?"

I briefly glared at him before turning my attention back to the book. "What? You wanna get under my hood? No chance. Ain't nobody touching my car but me."

Bobby just shook his head, realizing that I had, once again, no intention of speaking of the matter. "Need anything else?"

"Stop it, Bobby." I rolled my eyes and put the book down, now getting out of the couch to go get a beer from Bobby's fridge.

"Stop what?" He raised his voice slightly, clearly starting to get frustrated with me.

"Stop asking if I need anything. Stop asking if I'm okay. I'm okay." I clarified as I bended down, taking a good look inside the old man's fridge. "This is sad. You only have beer and beans, Bobby? No wonder you're always so uptight. You must be gassy as hell."

"Shut up." He dismissed "You've been coming here everyday for the past month, and you haven't even brought up Daryl once."

I closed the fridge door and opened the cold bottle, taking a sip of that sour drink before leaning back on the counter behind me. "You know what? You're right." I sighed. "Come here. I wanna lay my head gently on your shoulder. Maybe we can cry, hug. Maybe even slow dance." I said sarcastically.

Bobby just looked as me like he was absolutely done with my shit. "Don't patronize me, Emma." He growled.

"Oh, we're using fancy words. Nice." I continued. Listen, I knew he cared, probably too much for his own good. But I had this conversation with myself a thousand times. And Dean was right, talking about this shit does not solve the problem."What you want me to say, Bobby?"

"I want you to say you're hurt. I want you to say you're angry. I want you to kick his ass and make him never forget. But all you do is work in that damn car and drink my beer until it's time for you to pick up Jack. You're hiding, Emma." He exclaimed, now getting off his seat, with an angry look, that really, was just a mask trying to hide the trouble in his eyes.

"Sounds good. But I don't know how any of that is gonna help me at all. So for now, the only thing I plan on doing, is finishing my beer, working this case and picking up my son from school. And of course, work on my car. Cause that's what I can do."

I walked back to the couch and grabbed my jacket along with my keys. "I'll see you around, old man."

"Whatever." He said, suddenly dropping the topic, feeling resigned.

I walked out of the house, leaving the empty bottle of beer on top of an unloaded barrel of oil, before opening the door and getting into my car.
I inserted the key into the ignition before twisting it, but the engine didn't even crack at all.

"Damn fuses." I growled.

I stayed there for a couple of seconds, trying to calm myself down, before all my frustration got the best of me, and just stared at Bobby's house.
As if he could read my mind, the old man walked out of the house, meeting the hot sun of Georgia, and just looked at me in amusement. Enjoying himself.

"I can lend you a car." He offered.

🔯

The only car Bobby had working was a beat-up, poorly maintained minivan, so I really didn't have much of an option. I was running out of time and people wouldn't interview themselves.