“Want me to—” my father asks.
“I’m good, thanks.” I turn away, hoping my expression doesn’t betray the anger I’m feeling. “And thanks for the motorcycle.”
“It’s not any bike, Cash,” my father says. “It’s a Harley Davidson. The newest on the market. You were nineteen when you said you wanted one. It was about time I got you one. Once you walk again, you can take it for a ride.”
I shoot him a grim smile.
There, another example. Another reminder of how big of a fuck-up I am.
I’m not completely immobile, and yet that’s what they all think.
“Maybe get me another one of those.” I hold up the beer bottle, dourly, and watch as Dad gets up to fulfil my request.