Chapter Two

Ash

L ying in bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and the spots of black mold by the window, just like I've done countless times over the years. My alarm went off an hour ago, but I've yet to leave the room. Mom and her boyfriend, Rich, have been fighting nonstop since they got back. I don't wanna get involved, but I need to get ready soon, or I'll be late for work at the salvage yard my buddy Jace's dad owns.

Things with Mom and Dad used to be great… until he cheated on her when I was ten. Since she was left with me, being a single mom meant she had to work her butt off with two jobs just to pay the bills, though it was never enough. Living in Perry, one of the poorest counties, Mom worked at the diner in the day and then nights at a less-than-ideal bar just outside of town because the tips were better. Despite our best efforts to still spend time together, everything changed when she met Rich. Mom began spending all her time with him instead, and slowly, she changed. She was no longer the mom I used to know, resulting in empty cupboards and frequent power outages until she paid the bill to restore it.

She stopped being a loving mother who prioritized my needs and making sure we had food to eat. She went from someone who actually cared if the house looked untidy when a neighbor stopped by to just not caring. She'd always ensured that I had clean clothes for school and that we appeared our best. However, at eleven, just one year after she met Rich, I looked unkempt and malnourished. I'd started cutting my own hair and washing my clothes in the sink to avoid getting teased at school for looking dirty. Rich gradually gained power over Mom, only allowing her to leave for work to support their partying and drug habits. At age twelve, I got my first black eye from Rich. Mom was too messed up to do anything about it, but promised it wouldn't happen again. I've learned the hard way that it was just one of her many broken promises.

There was a time when I felt ashamed that the neighbors could hear the screaming, shouting, and doors slamming, but as the years went by, they and I grew accustomed to it. Multiple times during my childhood, we'd had contact with Child Protective Services, but my mom and Rich always managed to convince them we were a happy family and that arguments were a normal part of a healthy relationship. I'm not sure what crack the CPS were smoking when they came to visit because anyone with eyes and ears could tell you there was nothing normal about the dynamic in this house.

As soon as I hear the front door slam, I take the opportunity to get up. Swiftly dressing in my ripped black jeans, band tee, and dark gray hoodie, I slide into the black and white Vans Jace gave me a few months back. He casually mentioned that the shoes were the wrong size for him, and he didn't want to go through the trouble of returning them. While I had a gut feeling that he had intentionally chosen them for me, I'd just accepted them. It was simply one of his regular antics to do things like that, often ordering a gigantic pizza and insisting he was starving, only to send me off with the uneaten portion, knowing that I wouldn't find anything to eat when I got home. His dad, Jim, sends me texts on the phone that Jace gave me a couple of years ago when he upgraded, inviting me over for dinner because he's made too much food. It's their way of subtly helping me out. I'd refused in the beginning, but they were persistent, so now I just accept the things they offer. It's easier than saying no.

Now that I have a bit of cash from work, me and Jace take turns buying food for each other. They've both been so gracious to me for years. I'll never be able to repay them for their kindness.

Since it's Saturday, I'm loading my backpack with spare clothes and essentials. On the weekend, Mom and Rich usually engage in excessive drug use and partying, so I usually opt to stay at Jace's place or sleep in my van, not wanting to be anywhere near it all. It's an old, worn-out Honda Odyssey that Jace and I fixed up when it was traded in at Jim's car dealership and scrapyard a few years ago. It's not pretty, but it's yet to let me down. She looks broken, but she's in better shape than my broken home.

Before heading out of my room, I tuck my emergency fifty-dollar bill into my shoe and have a quick check in the mirror on my wall. Taking a second to tidy up my brown hair, I brush it back with my fingers and apply some of the gel I snagged on sale last week.

Putting the remaining items in my bag, I silently make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a piss.

In the kitchen, Mom's sitting on a stool at the counter, the faint sound of her sniffles mixing with the lingering smell of smoke. She looks like shit, with her brown hair a mess and her makeup all smudged, but it doesn't stop me from giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Morning, Mom."

"Hey sweetie," she says in her gravely smoker's voice.

"What was all the noise about?" I ask, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.

"Oh, Rich can't find his truck keys," she says, taking another pull on her cigarette and blowing smoke my way.

"He can't drive it, so why does he even need them?" Rich got pulled over, and it resulted in a DUI charge, so his truck currently just sits in the drive.

She looks at me sheepishly, which means he's got a stash of drugs in there that he needs. I just nod.

"How was your gig last night?" she asks.

I'm surprised she even remembered my gig at Davey's Dive Bar. I met Davey in all his leather vest, long beard, and ever-changing mohawk glory one day at Jim's Salvage Yard about two years ago. He overheard me playing and proposed that I try performing at his bar. I started there the following week and quickly became popular, resulting in him hiring me. The freedom I get for the few hours I'm playing is what I live for. Singing has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Mom and I used to sing together constantly, with the emphasis on ‘used to .' With all the toxins in her system, she can barely make it out of the house these days. I have to store the guitar I saved up to buy—along with the amp Jim and Jace got me—in their garage so Rich doesn't swipe them to sell for a few bucks.

"It was good. About a hundred people there," I reply, wondering if she has any clue that performing has become my safe space—a place where I get to sing my heart out and empty my mind of the daily bullshit that is my life.

"You heading out to work?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'll be back tomorrow sometime."

"Got any fun plans? Maybe taking out a girl?"

"Oh, umm, nah. Just hanging with Jace." Girls are the last thing on my mind. I've had a few fumbles with them in my van, mostly after gigs if I can be bothered to stay once I've finished for the night or if Jace is out with his current girl. But I've got too much going on to even think about relationships. I'm twenty, and I've never kissed anyone, but that's my choice. I feel it's an intimate act, more than getting a blow job in the van, and I always wanna keep girls at arm's length so they know there'll never be anything between us.

Watching Mom's decline has put me off wanting to commit to someone. That's not to say I don't receive an abundance of attention, because I do, but no one has managed to capture my interest long term. I also don't want anyone around Mom and Rich. How do you explain your fucked-up life to someone you're dating? Maybe one day I'll get my first kiss—you know, the ones you see in movies, the all-consuming ones—but for now, I'm just trying to make it through each day.

"Okay, son." As she moves her hair aside, I notice the bruise that has formed just below her left eye. Once she realizes I've seen it, she quickly pulls her hair forward.

"Why do you stay with him, Mama?" I take a step closer.

"He's not that bad, Ash. He just gets upset easily. It's my fault. I just need to do better, that's all."

"No, it's not your fault." I feel annoyance building. Anger. "It's never your fault, just as it's not my fault. We shouldn't be his punching bags," I spit.

"I'm sorry he hurts you; I'll talk to him about it again." She takes my hand in her bony one.

"No, don't do that. You'll just upset him even more. One day, I'll leave this place and take you with me," I promise, my eyes stinging from unshed tears. She just smiles sadly at me. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I know it's Jace telling me he's headed to work.

"I need to get going. You gonna be, okay?" I squeeze her hand.

"Yeah, son. I'll be okay. You go on now; don't keep Mr. Jim waiting." Leaning in, I give her another kiss.

"Love you, Mama," I murmur against her cheek.

With a nod, she takes another drag from her cigarette. Despite her flaws and neglect, I can't help but continue to love her, though I sometimes wonder if she even realizes it's been years since she told me she loves me back.

Once I've finished stripping and crushing cars for the day at the scrapyard, I retreat to the office trailer. We affectionately refer to it as the sardine can because of its cramped quarters. I help myself to a cold slice of the pizza leftover from lunch. The desk I sit at is the one I claimed at the back of the trailer. The largest desk belongs to Jim, and it's at the front of the tin can, while Jace is positioned right beside mine. However, I'm the one who spends the most time here, as they're usually occupied with selling used cars at the front of the lot.

Jim told me that since I strip the cars down for him to sell parts, I can keep anything I discover in them. Over the years, I've come across some pretty cool items: lots of spare change, a watch, a gold ring I had Jim pawn for me, hoodies, and tools. There are so many air fresheners it's unbelievable, all shapes and sizes, but my favorite is, of course, a guitar. Instead of throwing them away, I created a makeshift tree using old wood and placed it near the entrance of the scrapyard. Now, I hang all the air fresheners I find on it. It's stupid, but it's always a talking point for customers when they come in.

Clicking on the screen to wake it up, I review all my posts—where I've listed the parts I stripped from the scrap that arrived today—for any potential sales. Although there are no buyers at the moment, I'm confident they will eventually sell, making some extra money for Jim. It fills me with a sense of accomplishment when a sale goes through; my little way of giving back to him. The door creaks open, and Jace enters the room, taking a seat at the desk beside me.

"You finished? We don't close for another hour," I ask, swinging around to him in my chair.

"Dad said I could have a break because it was busy today, but it's died off now. He said to say there's no more scrap coming in, so if you're done, you can finish up and sign off."

"Sweet. An extra hour to play sounds good to me." Closing the laptop, I reach behind me to grab the guitar that Jace had put there for me this morning. I unzip the case and take out my beautiful vintage Gibson J-45 Sunburst .

"So, you ready to hear the new song I learned?"

"Yeah, man, been looking forward to it. You know I love hearing you play."

One afternoon, freshman year, before I'd met Jace, I found myself aimlessly wandering the halls, no friends to eat with, when I stumbled upon the music room. I was instantly drawn to the guitar with its carved wood. Before I knew it, I had it in my hands, strumming spontaneously, creating a melodic sound that bounced off the music room walls just as Mr. Ford, the music teacher, entered. Instead of getting in trouble, he told me to continue and generously spent his lunch break teaching me some basics. From that moment, I knew it was love at first strum.

I tune up the strings, and then I dive into the intro for Jace. I discovered my singing ability when Mom would play the radio on Sundays, and we would sing along to the songs together. We'd dance around the living room pretending we were at a concert. That seems like a lifetime ago now.

I start singing ‘Start Over ' by Imagine Dragons, and even though I'm just practicing, the adrenaline kicks in, and I let the words flow through me. After strumming the last chord, I raise my eyes and I'm greeted by Jace's beaming smile. He's wearing his smart selling outfit: beige dress pants and a white button-down shirt. With his tidy blond bangs, he exudes the smart, preppy boy next door, but I know he's happiest in sweats and a tee, unafraid to get his hands dirty helping me strip cars.

"Man, your talent is wasted in this town." He shakes his head, smiling.

"You say that every time I sing," I laugh.

"Yeah, well, it's true. I know you don't want fame and stuff, but you should branch out, leave this town, and play bigger places or something."

"And leave all this behind?" I joke, waving my free arm around the office.

"Ash, I'm serious. You don't wanna be stuck in this shitty town forever."

"Why? You're here. Why do I need to leave? Don't you want me around no more?" I frown, feeling a bit defensive.

"No, that's not what I'm saying." Jace leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, his chair facing me. "I know I'm tied here because of Dad and the business, but who's to say we won't sell up and move one day?"

Panic sparks in me. "You planning on leaving, then? Is that what you're saying? You don't want me to tag along?" I stand up and pack my guitar in its case, unable to bear the feelings of abandonment.

"Nah, man, you're taking this the wrong way." Getting up, he stands next to me. "You're my best friend. I just want more for you. I want you to live a life you want and not one you're forced to live because of your mom and that dickhead, Rich."

Ugh, I run my fingers through my hair, the gel long gone after working a full day. I'm being an ass; he and his dad have been nothing but supportive. They just want the best for me. My coping mechanism will always be to go on the defensive to protect myself from being hurt. He's just being a good friend. "I know you're coming from a good place, but I can't leave Mom until I've at least tried to get her out."

Letting out a sigh, he fixes his intense blue eyes on my green ones. "I know. I'm just voicing my thoughts. I didn't mean to upset you. We good?"

With concern on his face, he waits for my reply. I smile, letting him know I'm over my outburst. Punching his arm, I say, "Yeah, we're good."

"Phew, I thought I fucked up. You know me and Dad. We both love you and have your best interests at heart."

I blush, feeling a rush of emotions, when he tells me he loves me. It's an odd sensation, a combination of vulnerability and joy. Despite being just best friends, I can't help but wonder if his countless acts of kindness toward me over the years imply deeper feelings. But I always brush it off, putting it down to his unwavering loyalty as an amazing friend. Unlike me, he's had a constant stream of girlfriends over the past few years. However, none of these relationships have lasted longer than a few weeks. They all claim that his friendship with me is too challenging to compete with. Jace simply brushes it aside, shrugging off any concerns or worries they have until they ultimately break up with him.

My relationship with Jace will forever be confined to friendship. I know full well that I would not be capable of reciprocating non-platonic feelings. While I haven't had many encounters with women, I can confidently say that I'm genuinely attracted to them. I'm not interested in men, but I would have no problem if Jace did.

"What's the plan for tonight, anyway?" he asks, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"I gotta make a quick trip to the store. I'm running low on food and need to fill up on gas. How about we take your tent and go to the creek tonight? Cook some hot dogs and chill?"

"Yeah, that sounds perfect," he agrees, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "I'll grab a couple of beers from my dad and join you there in a few hours."

"I'm on board with that."

With my guitar in hand, I make my way to the minivan and carefully stow it in the back seat. Just then, Jace comes jogging toward me.

"Here, take this twenty and pick up some stuff for S'mores."

There's no use in arguing with him about money, so I just take it and put it in my wallet. "You and your sweet tooth." I shake my head.

"I can't help it. I need my sweet treats. After all, I'm still a growing boy." He winks playfully and pats his stomach.

I let out a hearty laugh, "If you say so! Keep eating all that sugar, and I'll have to start mashing your food when you have no teeth left." He gives me the middle finger as I jump in my seat. With the engine humming and the Bluetooth connected, the sound of ‘Blame it on the Boom Boom' by Black Stone Cherry fills the van, setting the mood for the journey ahead. Rolling down the window, I lean out and holler, "Catch ya later!"