Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (24 page)

The song is for me. It’s for India. It’s for the little life she had inside. And I think, in sadness, maybe she didn’t even know about it herself. I hum to myself, my little tune, with its childish-lullaby words. I sing to myself, under my breath, and finally I can sleep.

* * *

One day, after hours of aimless walking, I find myself walking past a garage. I glance inside at the bays and see cars up on lifts, mechanics in coveralls underneath, tinkering and doing oil changes and whatever else. I can’t help but stop and watch. This simple scene has fired my imagination like nothing else for the past few weeks. I light a smoke and lean against a wall that offers a good view. A scruffy kid in too-big coveralls is working on a pickup truck jacked upon a hydraulic lift, and I can tell from here that the kid is fucking up some poor dude’s exhaust system. The kid has no idea what he’s doing, and no one is supervising him.
 

Whether it’s frustration, or the simple fact that I can’t bear to watch him struggle any longer, I walk over to the service bay, shove the kid aside and take the wrench from him.

“Hey, man, what the hell?” he protests and tries to push me out of the way, at the same time trying to take the wrench back.

One glare from me has him backing down. “You’re fucking it up. Let me help before you fuck it up so bad it can’t be fixed.”

He steps back, watches as I undo his mistakes, paying attention as I dismantle the entire exhaust system, go over it piece by piece and put it back together the right way.
 

When I’m done, my hands are covered in grease, and there’s something alive in my chest. The load weighing me down has lifted, a little bit.
 

A burly guy in coveralls with the upper half tied around his waist approaches me and the kid, and the late-model Ram 1500 I just fixed. “What’s going on, Ricky?” he asks, coffee in hand.

The kid, Ricky, gestures at me. “I don’t know, Carl. He just showed up. Took the wrench, redid everything I was working on.”

“And you just let him?”
 

Ricky gestures at me again. “You see him?”
 

Carl, obviously the owner of the garage, examines the exhaust system. “It’s good work. What’s your name?”

I’ve barely spoken in the last few months but suddenly…I feel alive again. Maybe with a bit of grease under my nails and a wrench in my hand, I can find a way to breathe other than cutting.
 

So I clear my throat. “Colt.”
 

“You know cars, Colt?”

I nod. “Yeah, I do.”

Carl points at a Camry up on a lift. “Have a look at that one.”
 

I toss the wrench back to Ricky and duck under the Camry. The brakes need replacing, and there’s oil leaking from somewhere. The leak is probably why it was brought in here in the first place. I sniff out the cause of the leak in a few minutes.

“Found the leak,” I say, emerging from underneath the car.

Carl nods at me and then glances at Ricky, “Sorry kid. You’ve just been replaced.”
 

“Aw, c’mon, Carl. I just started! And Aunt Linda said—”

“My sister doesn’t run my shop. You don’t know shit about cars and I don’t have time to teach you. You can work the counter.”
 

“This is bullshit,” Ricky says, but it’s under his breath and he’s already heading into the front of the shop.
 

Carl extends his hand. “I need full-time. I got work orders coming out my asshole, and my one skilled employee quit on me last month.”
 

“I’ll work till I drop. You won’t be disappointed.” I shake his hand.

“Start you at fifteen an hour. Keep your nose clean and don’t fuck anything up, and I’ll add to it.”

“Sounds good.”
 

And just like that, I have a job. A real job. A legitimate, legal job doing the one thing I’ve ever gotten any enjoyment from. It feels odd, filling out W2 information, and signing my name. I realize I’ll need a bank account to deposit my pay checks. I smile wryly to myself—going legit means no more cash, it means putting money in the bank like everybody else. Somehow this thought makes me feel good.

I step into a pair of coveralls, zip them up and get to work.
 

It feels like the barren, fallow soil of my soul has suddenly sprouted a seedling.
 

Perhaps hope has somewhere to grow.
 

I start work that day, right then. I work on the Camry and fix the leak and replace the brakes. The next challenge is an old as fuck Volvo, which I manage to breathe enough life into to see the owner through another summer. After a lunch break, I change the oil and fix a faulty starter on a Focus. I forget everything as I work. Everything. Time, myself, India, Split, the past, everything. Nothing exists but the tool in my hand and the mechanical problem that needs fixing.
 

I’ve got my head under the hood of a sweet-ass restored Charger, tinkering with the spark plugs. I’m aware of a presence behind me and then feel a tap on the shoulder. Instinct has me spinning around, and lunging forward. Tool in hand, I raise my arm, ready to strike. Suddenly I come to my senses. I realize I’ve got Carl by the throat and I’m about to bash his head in.

Immediately I let him go and drop the tool onto the engine block. “Shit. Shit. Sorry.” I back up. Blink hard, wipe at my face. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
 

Carl swallows, straightens. “Jumpy much? Jesus.”
 

“I don’t do well being snuck up on.”
 

“No shit.” He rubs his throat. “Do I gotta worry about you?”
 

I shrug. “Nobody’s gonna come after me.”
 

“Not what I mean. You gonna snap? You almost brained me just now, and all I did was walk up behind you.”
 

“Just…I was just surprised is all. I didn’t hear you.”
 

He nods, and then pauses before he says, “Okay. Just…keep that shit in check, man. Customers will sue me if you pull that shit on them.” He taps his wrist. “It’s after ten at night, time to knock off.”
 

I gesture at the Charger. “I’m almost done here. I don’t mind staying to finish up.”
 

Carl shakes his head. “I’m going home. And, no offense meant, but I don’t trust you here by yourself just yet. So. Time to knock off.”
 

“Got it.”
 

“How do you spell your name? I wanna make sure your name tag is right.”

“C-O-L-T.”
 

He locks up, turns the lights off, and closes the bay doors. We stand in a bright pool of light from a floodlight on a wire overhead. Cars pass in ones and twos in both directions.

“I’ll have your name tag for you tomorrow. My wife does embroidery. Be here at nine.” He extends his hand to me.

Tentatively, hesitantly, I shake it. I have a boss, and he’s a decent guy, it seems. Not everyone would be willing to overlook my jumpy, street-attuned instincts. “See you tomorrow, Carl.”

I walk back to Split and Callie’s place. They’re on the couch together, Callie is watching Split play Xbox and they’re sharing a bottle of booze, her head resting on his lap. They’re comfortable together. It’s easy and quiet and peaceful for them.
 

Split hears me come in and pauses his game. “Where you been, dog?” Not expecting a reply. But then he turns to look at me, sees the coveralls, the grease on my hands. “No shit! You got a job?”
 

I risk a very rusty smile, and I shrug. “Yeah.”

Split claps a hand to his heart, a comedically overdramatic gesture. “He speaks! Lawd be praised!”
 

“Shut up.” I duck my head, embarrassed. Mainly because I feel like a person again. It’s odd and painful and refreshing.
 

“For real, though. I’m happy for you, Colt. Where at?”
 

“Carl’s Auto Garage. Few miles north of here.”
 

“You done fighting?” It’s a loaded question. He’s also asking if I’m done cutting.
 

I shrug. “I think so. I’m going to try.”
 

I sit on the far side of the couch, Callie’s feet on my knees, watching Split shoot zombies. It feels good to sit down. I take a drink from the bottle and pass it back.
 

The past is still there. The misery. The grief. The guilt.

But…

But I realize it’s not all there is, somehow. If I can work on cars, I might survive this. It’s what India would have wanted.

“India would be proud of you,” Callie says.

“That’s what I was just thinking,” I tell her.
 

It’s hard to look at her because she’s always glancing at my chest, looking for blood where it sticks to my shirt after I’ve cut. She’s always looking at me as if she sees India.
 

But now, I look at Callie, and she just sees
me
. We share a smile full of meaning.

I just might survive this.

Chapter 12: Learning to Play

Time heals. That’s what they say anyway. I’ve got the healed scars on my chest to prove it. Inside I still hurt, still hate myself for what happened. I haven’t been able to forgive myself yet, but I’m getting there.

My life has become pretty simple: I work for Carl, fixing cars. I save my money, keep my head down, my nose clean, and try to just make it, one day at a time. I don’t fight anymore and I have to admit that feels good.

One day, not long after I started working for Carl, Split and I are sitting on the steps outside their apartment building, smoking a joint.
 

He hands it to me, blows out the smoke and then glances at me. “I ain’t trying to kick you out, but…you ever think of getting your own place?”
 

“Yeah. Funny you mention it, because I’ve been thinking about it.”
 

“You know you’re welcome for as long as you want to be here. But it could be good for you to be on your own.”
 

I’ve lived with Split and Callie ever since India died. They deserve their own space and it’s time for me to give it to them.
 

Split is right. He didn’t say it in so many words, but in a way I’m using them as a crutch: when I’m alone, the temptation to cope with the loneliness via a razor blade is far too strong. But I have to face that demon the same way I faced opponents in the boxing ring—I’ve gotta man up and commit myself.
 

I hand him the joint. As the smoke floats above our heads I say, “I’ll find somewhere.”
 

“Colt, you know I’m not—”

“I can’t live with you guys forever.” I slap him on the back. “I’m good. It’ll be good.”
 

Which is how I find myself in a crazy scenario: subletting a bedroom from an old woman. I found the place in a classified ad, and called her up on a whim. She wanted to have a face-to-face meeting and, for reasons I still do not understand, agreed to sublet a room to me. It’s cheap, and it’s close to the garage.
 

The landlady’s name is Tilda. She’s white, eighty-seven, spry, sweet, and strict. No women past midnight. No smoking anything in or around the house. No loud music. Shitty rules for most guys my age, but in my situation…it’s perfect. And impossible. There is no way now to avoid my demons, no way to avoid having to cope.
 

More often than not, I go to work, and then come home, and have to face being alone with my thoughts, with my memories. With my demons.

I can’t smoke in my room, and too much booze only heightens the loneliness. When I’m drunk, I cut—the temptation is overwhelming. It’s too much.

And then something truly odd happens. It is something totally ordinary but it completely changes me, completely alters my outlook on life.
 

One evening, Tilda puts a record on her old stereo—it’s an ancient old thing with a fancy wood cabinet. The music compels me out of my room and into the living room.
 

It’s an actual vinyl record, and the sound is incredible. Soft, slow, old music. A woman singing.
 

God, what a sight she is, all dressed up in her fanciest dress, hair done in a white perm. She’s dancing alone, a big smile on her face as she twists and sways slowly in place, clearly seeing something from decades long past.

“It’s Nina Simone, Colt.” She stops dancing, and somehow those old eyes see things they shouldn’t. She extends a wrinkled, papery hand. “Dance with me.”
 

I listen to the words; the singer is singing about a new dawn…what would a new dawn feel like, I wonder?
 

I take Tilda’s frail hand in mine, put a hand on her waist, and we dance slowly, swaying to Nina Simone. The song ends and another one comes on. We keep dancing.
 

“Frank and I used to dance like this.” She speaks into my shoulder. She’s tiny and seems fragile, but her voice is strong. “We both loved Nina. Frank used to sing for me. We’d dance, and he’d sing.”
 

“Well…just don’t expect
me
to sing,” I say.

“You ever try?”
 

I shake my head. “Not really.” Except for the little song I still sing sometimes to myself, when I can’t sleep, but I’d never tell anyone about that.

She pulls away from me, adjusts the record, puts the needle down, and “Feeling Good” comes on again. “Sing it. I know you know the words. Everybody knows this song.”
 

So I sing—you can’t say no to an old woman like Tilda. It’s odd at first. Foreign. Awkward. But the music is like a drug, a new kind of drug. I feel it in my veins, burning, coruscating, effervescent and wild. So I sing.
 

I sing.
 

When the song is over, I feel something powerful inside. Tilda is staring up at me. “Why, Colt, you have a beautiful voice! Absolutely lovely. My Frank, he couldn’t sing for nothing. But he was so earnest about it, so I never told him. He only sang for me, anyway. But you, Colt, you should sing more.”