A Little Bit Dirty

“‘Of course I do.” Glancing down the street to Melissa’s Sweets, I know Bri will see me from here if she’s there. Slipping my hands in my pockets, I ask Mrs. Brown what she needs. Her husband passed a few years ago and she took over the business. We thought she might retire, but she said she loves the shop too much. A picture of the two of them, posed in front of the two-story building with bright blue shutters, hangs in the front room. It’s from the day they opened and I just repainted those blue shutters for her last year I think it was.

Martina gestures up at the sign hanging above the door. It’s got a crack in it, and the blue on it has faded. “Must have been the wind,” she comments and then turns to face me. “Do you think you can fix it for me?”

With Brody and Griffin’s new bar and its shiny front open for business, every other place is updating their exterior. All of Main Street is sprucing up. Which means I’m getting calls left and right. And stopped outside of shops too.

I crane my neck side to side, looking at the crack in the old sign. “I think I can. Shouldn’t take me too long so long as it’s just the sign.” I look back to Martina. She’s got wrinkles around her eyes but the same smile I remember from my childhood. “I can make you a new one if you’d like.”

Her whole face lights up. Martina clasps her hands in front of her chest. “That would be wonderful, Asher. Thank you.”

“I’ll call you, promise,” I tell her, giving a short wave and a smile. I make a mental note to follow through.

“I’ll be waiting,” she says. “No rush, though, really. When you’ve got the time.”

I smile and nod and keep moving toward the bakery. Then my blood runs cold and my entire body is paralyzed.

No.

A familiar car is parked on the opposite side of the street.

No.

Not Brianna’s car. My dad’s.

It can’t be his car outside of the liquor store.

No.

My feet move of their own accord, across from the bakery and out to his car. As I get closer, I spot his air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror and a piece of mail he’s had on the dashboard for three months. Nervousness pricks down my back.

I don’t even want to look, but I can’t help it. Barely breathing, I spot him right there, in broad daylight, putting a six-pack on the counter.

No.

I’m barely aware of following him. I just do it. I check for traffic and cross in the middle of the block. The bell on the door chimes as I open it and get hit with a cool blast of air-conditioning and the smell of floor polish.

My dad’s still at the counter. It’s a normal scene for everybody but him. The clerk, Miss Jean, is happy as can be and smiling at my dad. She has no idea what happened at our house.

His eyes flick up toward the door. Toward me. He does a double take.

Betrayal seeps through me, flooding every other emotion.

And then his face flushes a deep red. He fumbles in his pocket for his wallet and takes out cash.

“What’s that for?” I ask, my voice too loud. There’s so much rage pounding through me that my voice shakes.

The clerk smiles at me, although it falters. She knows who I am. Everybody around here does. She just doesn’t know about my dad’s problem.

“Just his weekly pickup,” the clerk answers.

Weekly? I can barely stand upright. No.

“What?” I’m going to lose my shit. My vision goes dark at the edges. “Weekly?”

My father’s voice is stern when he says, “I think you should step outside, Son.”

Miss Jean doesn’t respond to me. She glances between the two of us before taking the money from his hand silently and nervously pops the drawer on the register.

I can’t believe he’s buying beer.