17. 17
I hear the engine before I can even look up to see what it is.
Smooth idle, sharp intake on the downshift, a faint rattle that shouldn’t be heard.
I don’t even have to look. It’s a knack. Engines speak before people do. With a smirk, I slide a toothpick between my teeth, wipe my hands on a rag, and head out to the front. And just like clockwork… she’s here.
Zoe’s propped against the driver’s side door, oversized sunglasses hiding most of her face, though the faint scatter of freckles still peeks out beneath the frames. Her mouth is set, her posture stiff—like just showing up here cost her more than she’s willing to admit.
“Hey, Freckles.”
Her chin barely lifts. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”
I grin, lazy and unbothered. “And I told you to bring this car in over a week ago. Looks like we both have a problem following instructions.”
A muscle ticks in her jaw. She’s fighting the urge to roll her eyes, I can feel it. She’s wearing black high-waisted jeans that hug her hips just right, and a white shirt that outlines just enough to be distracting. Not that I should be looking. We’re friends, right?
“So”—I lean against the bonnet, toothpick shifting to the corner of my mouth—“what finally made you decide to bring the Merc in, huh?”
She crosses her arms tighter, still hovering. “It’s making weird noises.”
“Yeah? That’s what they usually do when something’s wrong.”
Her lips twitch. “It’s doing this… clunky thing. Thought I’d bring it in before it turns into a full-blown catastrophe.”
Smart call. I take the keys from her outstretched hand and pop the bonnet. It takes all of thirty seconds to figure out the problem—a cracked timing belt and a water pump on its last leg.
“You’re lucky you got here. Wouldn’t have lasted another day on the road,” I mutter, head buried under the hood.
Straightening, I close it and step aside. I pull a cigarette from my pocket, stick it between my lips, and light up. The flicker of the flame catches in her sunglasses as she watches me, her mouth pulling into a faint grimace. She gives a slow shake of her head. It’s barely there, but I catch it.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” She tsks. “Smoking in a garage full of oil and… whatever else you’ve got lying around?”
I smirk around the cigarette. “Only if you plan on turning the place into a fireworks show.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “You should quit.”
I blow out a slow stream of smoke, glancing at her sidelong. “Okay, Mum. No worries.”
She exhales sharply, shifting her weight. “So, how long am I without it?”
I straighten. “Two, maybe three weeks. It’s a German car, so the parts have to be ordered straight from the supplier.”
She frowns. “Seriously? You can’t just order them from somewhere else?”
I arch a brow, rolling the cigarette between my teeth. “Do I look like I half-ass jobs here?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she folds her arms tighter, giving me that dead-on glare she’s perfected.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare you can borrow till then.”
“You have a habit of giving things to strangers?”
I smirk, already heading toward the side garage where we keep the spare cars. “Now, I wouldn’t call us strangers anymore, would you?”
She stays quiet, but her silence says more than words could.
That jaw of hers ticks again, and I can’t tell if it’s because she hates accepting help, or because it’s me who’s offering it.
I take one last drag, then flick the butt into the open rubbish bin instead of across the gravel.
She’d definitely have something to say if I’d flicked it like I normally do.
“It’s business, not charity,” I add, flipping through the spare keys hanging on the hook. I return to where she’s standing, holding one up. “You’ll bring it back in one piece, and I’ll get your Merc running like new. Simple exchange.”
“Right.” She takes the keys from my hand, her fingers brushing mine for half a second before she pulls back like I burned her.
I nod toward the old silver Corolla parked out front. “That’s her. Not much to look at, but she’ll do the job.”
Zoe narrows her eyes at it. “That thing looks like it’s one pothole away from falling apart.”
“Maybe, but it’ll get you from A to B.”
She lets out a short huff, and her arms stay crossed, her back ramrod straight. She’s always so damn straight, like she’s holding herself together with sheer will. But I can see the tightness in her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping.
Or if she has, it hasn’t been peaceful. I’ve seen it before with my brother.
“Thanks,” she says eventually.
“My pleasure,” I murmur. “Just try not to kill her. She’s an old girl.”
That earns me a flat look, but there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth before she turns and walks away. I stay where I am, watching her climb into the Corolla, wondering why the hell her silence settles in my chest like a weight I can’t shake.
The truth is that there are plenty of strangers I’d never hand keys to.
But she isn’t one of them anymore. Not even close.
I lug the last box into the granny flat out back. Now that Harrison and Imogen have their own place—a brand-new, spacious three-bedroom build just down the road—this space is mine.
Harrison swears moving so close was for the kids, but Imogen insists he just didn’t want to be too far from me. Clingy bastard .
I’ve been shifting my stuff in, bit by bit, making it mine.
Since they left, the main house has felt…
quiet. Empty in a way I’m still not sure I like.
Not that I’m complaining—this flat’s peaceful, tucked away, exactly how I like it.
The last thing I bring in is my bedside lamp.
To anyone else, it’s just junk. To me, it’s the one thing that’s followed me everywhere.
It’s the only thing that’s ever made the nights bearable. It may sound strange, sure, but that ugly, chipped, rundown lamp has always been the line between lying there with my chest tight, listening to my pulse hammer in the dark, and actually closing my eyes.
Even when I was a kid, I’d wait until Harrison was out cold before I flicked it on—just a weak little glow, barely enough to light the room, but enough to keep the shadows from closing in. Enough to stop the thoughts that always crept in when the world went black.
Turns out, Harrison was waiting on me, too. Both of us were way too stubborn, neither willing to admit that we needed it. But once that light was on, we’d let ourselves ease into sleep. It never came easy, not back then, but it came a little easier with that soft glow between us.
A quiet hum of safety we couldn’t say out loud, but we both felt all the same .
Some nights, we got lucky. Other nights, there’d be footsteps.
Raised voices. Harrison shoving me into the cupboard like muscle memory.
One hand on the door, the other clenched so tight, his knuckles would go white.
I’d sit there in the dark, knees pulled tight to my chest, listening to our father rip through the house like a fucking hurricane, praying Harrison didn’t get the worst of it. Hoping it’d pass quickly.
He always did.
And it never passed quickly.
We haven’t shared a room since we were teenagers. Haven’t spoken about those nights in years. But I still catch myself wondering if he does it too—leave a light on. It keeps the dark from pressing in. I guess over time, some habits stop being habits before they turn into armour.
Small, stubborn acts of survival you never outgrow. This one’s mine.
Harrison mentioned last week—over a beer—that Dr. Lowes reckons he’s doing so well he won’t have to see her as much. Then he grinned and said she wants us to do a session together.
“ Brotherly shit ,” he called it. I laughed it off.
Imogen’s been pushing too. “ Might help you, you know ,” she’d said. “ Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you. ”
The ironic thing is, I was the one who made him go in the first place. I was the one who’d encouraged Harrison to talk to someone, and I don’t doubt Imogen did the same. And now, I’m the one refusing to talk.
That voice in my head says it’s because I’m fine . I’ve always been the chill one. The easygoing one. Or maybe I’ve just always had him standing in front of me, taking the hits. I scrub a hand over my face. Maybe they’re all right.
I owe Harrison more than I’ll ever admit.
Part of me envies him—how he found someone who gets him. Really gets him. Like two puzzle pieces with jagged edges that still manage to fit. I want that. Or, I think I do.
But the idea of letting someone get that close? Of handing over the soft, ugly parts I’ve spent years hiding? I’m not sure if I can bring myself to let anyone close enough to find out.
Not emotionally. Not affectionately.
I don’t date, and I never hang around long enough for a second night. That’s when they start leaning in, wanting things I can’t give. Things I don’t even know how to give. It’s easier to be the laidback, sarcastic brother everyone expects. It’s just best this way.
So why the hell am I so torn up over one woman now?
Why does she feel like the exception I’ve spent my whole life avoiding?
A knock pulls me out of my thoughts. I glance over my shoulder to find Mum standing in the doorway, arms crossed tight. “It’s quiet now, huh? Without your brother, Imogen, and the kids.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re not wrong.”
“I liked the noise.”
“Me too.”
Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in the shelves I put up, the freshly painted walls. “You’ve done a good job. It… feels like yours.”
My eyes dart to the lamp, which is still unplugged.
I didn’t want to end up here. This flat was always meant for Harrison.
He built it for himself. I wanted my own place, somewhere away from the ghosts still rattling around this property.
But Harrison insisted. Said it made sense, just until I found something else.
And deep down, I think we both knew I’d never argue with him.
Not after everything he’s done for me.
After everything he’s carried.
I turn the ring around my finger, the metal worn and cheap, the gold long since dulled.
I took it from Gary’s drawer the night we threw him out.
I don’t know why I took it, or why I still wear it.
Maybe it’s a reminder of where I came from.
My quiet, permanent fuck you to the man who tried to break us.
Harrison doesn’t know. He thinks I picked it up years ago at some servo counter, or during that phase when I used to pocket things just because I could.
But I didn’t. I stole it from him. And somehow, wearing it makes me feel like I’ve taken something back.
Like I’ve got control now. Like all the years of terror and torture can’t crawl out of the dark and find me—not when I’m laughing, or when I think I’m safe.
I survived him.
We all did.
“You hungry?” Mum asks.
“Nah, I’m good.”
She nods like she already knew my answer. She starts to leave, but pauses. “You know… you can talk to me. If you ever want to.”
I keep my eyes on the lamp. “I know. Thanks, Mum.”
She leaves, and I’m left with the quiet again.
We’ve come a long way, her and me. But the softness between us still feels foreign.
Sometimes, when she tries to be soft, I recoil.
Not on purpose. It’s just… muscle memory.
I never really learned how to be mothered.
And she’s still learning how to be a mum.
I plug the lamp in, and its glow spills into the corner of the room, wrapping the shadows in something warm.
Outside, cicadas hum, the wind moves through the trees, a dog barks somewhere far off.
Safe sounds. Sleep comes eventually. Not because everything’s okay.
But because the light is on. And for me, that’s enough.