His wife is a stay-at-home mom, and she always goes the extra mile for him. Today he has some white-sauce pasta in a thermos that smells heavenly. Steam flows from the container, letting me know it’s still warm. He also has some steamed veggies—also still warm—and a Tupperware container of sliced watermelon and cantaloupe. She also never forgets to pack her honey a sweet treat too. This time, it’s frosted brownies.
Looking down at my pathetic sandwich and the reused baggie of crushed potato chips, I roll my eyes. Maybe I need to find a wife. That could solve all my problems.
I laugh to myself, becauseyeah fucking right.
“What’s funny?”
Dragging my gaze from my pathetic lunch to Quinn’s confused face, I shrug. “Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.”
As soon as I get the last word out, my stomach twists uncomfortably and my mouth waters. By the time my feet hit the gravel driveway, I’m doubled over, the contents of my stomach burning their way up my throat. Quinn barely gets his feet up onto the truck before I retch all over the ground in front of him.
“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, scooting back, farther out of the line of fire.
His voice echoes inside my head, but I’m not really hearing him. My stomach rolls as more bile spews out, and tears spring to my eyes from the sheer force behind the hurl and the acidic burn as it expels itself from my body.
Fuck, I really must be coming down with something. I can’t remember the last time I threw up. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I glance up at Quinn from where he’s watching me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
“You okay, man?” he asks timidly.
Nodding, I say, “Yeah. That came out of nowhere, but I’m good.”
My knees start to buckle, so I grab onto the edge of the truck bed to steady myself as my head hangs between my shoulders. Dragging in a deep breath through my nose, I hold it in for a few beats before exhaling out of my mouth. I’m still not convinced it isn’t going to happen again.
“You think you should go home?” Reaching into his lunch box, he pulls out a white napkin, handing it to me.
I turn behind me, spitting out the remainder of the rancid taste before wiping my mouth with the napkin. “Nah, I’m good. Let’s go.” Shoving the discarded paper into my back pocket, I put the rest of my uneaten lunch into my pack before trudging back into the unfinished building.
The remainder of the afternoon goes by without too much of a hitch. My stomach is sour for the rest of the day, but I’m able to get through it without throwing up everywhere again. My body aches down to my bones and I feel like I’m burning up, though. I don’t miss the way Quinn keeps a wide distance from me, not wanting to catch whatever bug I have. Not that I blame him. We don’t have the type of job that offers a plush time-off package or a comfy insurance policy. Yeah, we’re paid decent money and get a work truck, but that’s about as far as the company’s generosity goes.
We end up finishing at a quarter to six, but by the time we clean up, pack everything away, and I drive home, it’s well after seven. There isn’t anything I want to do other than pass the fuck out and hopefully wake up in the morning feeling better, but I know I need a shower, or I’ll wake up feeling disgusting. So, with all the energy I can muster up, I turn on the water, quickly stripping down before climbing under the stream.
The hot water feels unbelievable on my tired and achy muscles. I need this to clear up by tomorrow. The thought of going through another day like today sounds as appealing as walking across shards of glass. After washing myself with the quickness, I climb out and don’t even bother with clothes as I slide under my covers.
For the first time in over a year, I fall asleep without so much as a second thought and manage to stay asleep all night.
11
JOSIAH
“Josiah Motors, how can I help you?”
“Hi, dear. This is Linda McMann. I’m checking on when my car will be ready for pickup.”
“Well, hello, Linda.” Using my shoulder to hold the phone to my ear, I wiggle the mouse, and the computer screen comes to life. “Can you let me know the year, make, and model?”
“2016 Subaru Forester.”
“Ah, yes. One of my mechanics is finishing the oil change now. It should be ready in about a half hour.”
Hanging up with her, I toss my grease rag over my shoulder and head back into the garage. We’re down a couple of guys, and it’s an all-hands-on-deck type of day. I opened this shop almost nine months ago. It’s always been a dream of mine since I was a young boy, but I never thought it would happen for me.
When I left my hometown in Utah two years ago, I didn’t have a solid plan in mind. I just knew I needed to do better, needed more out of my life. Needed to leave the mess I created.
So, one morning before dawn, I packed a duffle bag and hit the open road. My savings lasted me quite a while; it allowed me to find a place to rent, and it gave me a cushion while I looked for a job. That wasn’t too hard, though. I’ve been a mechanic my entire working life—hell, for as long as I can remember, I’ve worked on cars.
One of my earliest memories was watching my neighbor rebuild an old classic Mustang. I was probably five or six, and during the summer, I’d sit on the grass, a juice box and some crackers in hand, watching him for hours—sometimes until the sun went down. He’d take it apart. Put it back together. Repeat. It wasn’t until a few years later that he started showing me the ropes, and I knew I had found what I wanted to do with my life.
However, the DeMille men were meant to work in the church. At least that’s what good ol’ Pops always preached to my brother and me when we were kids. I knew very early on that I didn’t fit that mold. My brother, Samuel, did, though. He’s worked in and around the church since he was old enough. He even married the bishop’s daughter, and they had a sweet little baby girl right out of high school. He was everything my father wanted out of a son.
