Page 12 of Fourth Wheel
“Well, that answers your question, then. She would have been eleven fucking years old when I graduated from Arch.”
The admission tastes vile on my tongue. The gravity of my poor judgment is overwhelmingly heavy. I bow my head again and just let it hang.
When I finally look up, Jake is watching me, his expression a mix of pity and understanding.
I swallow past the lump in my throat before I speak again.
“He can never know.”
“Which one?”
“Neither,” I insist without hesitation.
He cocks his head to the side like he wants to argue, but this isn’t his call to make. I’m not bending on this. After a tense moment, he concedes. “Yeah, okay. They won’t hear a word about this from me.”
I let out a sigh of relief, then glance around the empty bar. There’s something peaceful about being at The Oak after last call. The juxtaposition between this moment and the usual hustle makes the quiet that much sweeter.
“Need any help closing up?” I ask. I’m dead on my feet, but I’m not in any hurry to go home.
“Nope,” he says, hopping off the barstool, then turning to gather his things. “I’ll finish up and lock the back door. Just go out the way you came and lock the door behind you.”
I nod and lift a hand before walking out the front door and coming face to face with the clock tower on the corner of the green.
I’m never going to look at that damn brick structure the same way again.
A muffled chime rings out through the night as I pull open the car door, and I can’t help but look up one more time as the clock strikes two.
Fuck. I made out with Wheeler’s underage sister tonight.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I loved every fucking second of it.
I slink into the house through the garage door, surprised to hear a familiar song being plucked on the acoustic guitar as I make my way through the foyer.
Mom must be settled for the night if my brother’s messing around with his guitar.
Thank God.
The last week has been a total dumpster fire. An unexpected, uncontrollable dumpster fire.
My brother and I live at home, and we share the responsibility of taking care of our mom. We’ve always been able to count on her regular “wellness retreats” to cut us a break. The fancy rehab facilities she frequents are designed to be a detox and reset under the guise of an extended spa experience. More than that, they guarantee respite for my brother and me.
But last week she left for one of her favorite facilities in Arizona, only to show up at home two days later.
Two days.
She was supposed to be gone for three weeks.
Three weeks away, followed by at least a month of sobriety. That’s what I was expecting. Instead, I’m frantically trying to rearrange my work schedule and figure out what the hell happened.
She won’t talk about it—every time I ask, her eyes get watery, and she apologizes for being such a burden.
I can barely hold it together when she gets like that, so the conversation never goes any further. It is what it is. I accepted a long time ago that this is how it has to be.
There’s not a single overhead light or lamp on, the only source of illumination the nearly full moon filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I hop over the steps that lead into the sunken living room, then flop onto the oversized couch with enough force to elicit a grunt from my brother.
He’s flat on his back with his long, jean-clad legs hanging off the side, his guitar resting against his bare chest. I mirror his position, scooting back until the crowns of our heads touch.
