Chapter 65

I can't remember the last time I lost it. Like, really, truly lost control of my emotions and let the anger and rage win out. Though I'm positive there was a punching bag involved, and that bag rewarded me with bruised knuckles for days. It was months ago, I'm sure. Sometime pre-Harlow.

I'm losing it now, though—that control—because my van just died halfway down my driveway, right where the road splits between the two houses, and this is the last fucking thing I need.

I punch the steering wheel before stepping out, slamming the door, kicking the tire, and then popping the hood. As if I actually know what the hell I'm looking for.

I do know this though… there's something fucking wrong with me.

I've never felt like this before. Like there's a constant weight on my chest, and it's getting heavier and heavier each day, each minute. And the heavier it gets, the angrier I get, and like I said… there's something wrong with me.

For minutes, I stare at the engine, never really seeing much of anything. I tug on wires, tap at metal, as if that's somehow going to fix it.

LSU canceled my visit. They're going a different route, they told me.

I have close to zero options left.

I turn swiftly at the sound of a car coming up the driveway, and then narrow my eyes when I don't recognize the blue SUV moving toward me. The closer it gets, the clearer it becomes, and I now see Harlow behind the wheel, her dad in the passenger's seat, and I groan. Out loud. And turn back around, pretend to know what the hell I'm doing.

As if my day couldn't get any worse, the car slows behind me, then stops completely. In my mind, I tell the entire world to fuck off. In reality, I turn to Shawn, who steps up next to me, and I murmur, "Is that Harlow's new car?"

"Yep," he answers. "She must've been saving every penny from her job."

I contain my scoff. At least one of us got something out of this mess.

"I'm guessing you're not just standing in front of the van with the hood up for fun," Shawn muses.

I watch Harlow's car go all the way up her driveway before speaking. "Nope."

"Do you know what you're doing?"

I shrug. "My grandpa was a mechanic in the military. Used to work on tanks. Then he opened a garage in Fremont. Kind of wish I'd learned what I could while he was sober, because he's more than useless now." That was way more information than he asked for, but it's too late to take it back. "No," I add after a beat. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Silence stretches between us, and I don't even want to know what he's thinking. "Listen, about you and Harlow…"

"I really don't want to talk about it," I mumble.

"That's fair." He tugs on the spark plugs, like I did before. "Well, I assume you know when Harlow's at work, and her mom's not around anymore, thank God, so you're welcome to use the half-court whenever you want… Even if Harlow is home, I'll let her know I told you it was okay. That space was yours well before it became ours."

"Thanks," I mutter. "But Coach gave me a key to the gym, and the school lets me use it whenever I want now."

"All right," he says, sighing, and I don't know why he's here. Besides the land we share, we have nothing left to connect us. He doesn't need to be nice to me, and he sure as hell doesn't need to feel responsible for making my life easier. I'm still staring blankly at the engine bay when he continues, "Listen, Jace… I don't know what happened between you two, and I don't think I really need to know, but it's important I get this off my chest."

Here we go…

"Harlow was in a really dark place when she met you, and somehow, you saw past that and fell for the girl she usually keeps hidden from the rest of the world. It's a defense mechanism… saves her from getting hurt. And that girl has been hurt a lot. You… you were the first boy she ever called a boyfriend, and as far as first boyfriends go… I, as her dad, couldn't be happier it was you. I'm real sorry it didn't work out."

I blink back the moisture in my eyes, push past the visceral ache beneath my ribs. I force myself to breathe. Once. Twice. And focus on the van. "I don't know what's wrong with it," I mumble. I'm looking at the engine, but deep down, I know I'm talking about myself. "I keep trying to go back and figure out where it went wrong or where the problem is, and I can't fucking…" I grip the edge of the hood, my gaze lowered, struggling to keep it together.

"It's okay, son," he says quietly, squeezing my shoulder. "We'll figure it out."