Chapter 7 #2
“Nah, for real though.” Gael’s expression goes more serious.
“Harper, you gave us more than jobs. You gave us a place where we could actually grow as artists. We didn’t have to deal with toxic shop drama or owners who treated us like shit.
You always hope to land at a shop that feels like family.
And I know I speak for everyone here when I say we’re proud as hell to work with you. ”
The tightness in my chest expands, pressing against my ribs.
“Hear, hear!” Reina says, and suddenly they’re all talking over each other.
“Remember when that guy came in wanting the racist tattoo and Harper literally threw him out?” Ramiro says.
“And banned him from every shop in town,” Ximena adds. “We had his photo up in Elio’s place within the hour.”
“Or how she got us recognition in the Statesman for the mural we volunteered for?” Gael says.
“Best press we ever got,” Elio agrees.
I’m trying not to cry. I’m not a crier. But fuck, this is... this is everything I never thought I’d have. Community. Respect. People who chose to be here, working with me and building something together.
I look down at Bruiser, who’s watching me with big eyes and a smile, and my heart damn near explodes. This is what I wanted. For him to see that you can make your own family and build something from nothing.
“You guys are gonna make me lose it,” I say, voice rougher than I’d like.
“Good,” Ximena says. “You deserve to feel all the feels, boss.”
I’m about to respond when I see Bruiser’s face light up. He’s looking past me toward the shop entrance, and I know before I even turn around.
Z.
Finally.
I turn, relief flooding through me. Late is better than never, and maybe we can salvage—
But the second I see him, the relief evaporates.
He’s stumbling. Actually stumbling, catching himself on the doorframe. His eyes are unfocused, and even from here I can see the sheen of sweat on his face despite the cool evening air.
This isn’t just drunk.
He’s high on something. Fuck.
“Heyyyyy, everybody!” Z’s voice is too loud, slurring at the edges. “Sorry I’m late to the party!”
The celebration noise cuts off like someone sliced through it with a knife.
Bruiser’s smile falters. “Dad?”
My stomach drops to somewhere around my fucking feet.
“Ximena,” I say quietly, not taking my eyes off Z as he weaves his way onto the patio. “Take Bruiser to Rosalita’s.”
“On it.” She’s already moving, scooping Bruiser up even though he’s getting too big for it, distracting him with some bullshit about needing help finding something next door.
“I’m f-fine, I’m fine,” Z is saying to no one in particular.
He’s got a beer bottle in one hand—where the fuck did he get that?
—and he’s grinning that loose, sloppy grin that makes my blood run cold.
“Just needed to celebrate with my girl. My beautiful, badass girl who’s too good for—” he gestures vaguely “—all this shit anyway.”
The crowd is melting away. I don’t blame them. Elio catches my eye, a question in his expression—do I need backup?—but I shake my head slightly. This is about to get ugly, and the fewer witnesses the better.
“Z,” I say, my voice flat and cold as concrete. “Let’s go talk. Inside. Right fucking now.”
He laughs, but it’s not his real laugh. It’s this broken, jagged sound that doesn’t belong in his throat. “Oh, now she wants to talk to me. Now that I’ve ruined her perfect little—”
“Inside,” I bite out. “Or I swear to God—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves the bottle at me. “Let’s talk, princess. Let’s talk about all of it.”
I grab his arm—he’s unsteady enough that I can basically steer him—and drag him toward the shop office. The last thing I see is Bruiser’s confused, worried face peeking around Ximena’s waist.
That look is gonna haunt me.
But not as much as what’s about to come out of Z’s mouth, I’m guessing.
Once the last of the party guests have cleared out, I drag a still-stumbling Z into the office and slam the door behind us.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shout. Because though sometimes I baby Z—he works long hours, and I more than anyone understand the way he was raised and the shit he went through—I’m officially at my limit of coddling him.
He tips the beer bottle up and downs another long swig, lighting up my fury even hotter.
How fucking dare he?
Didn’t he see the look of confusion and devastation on Bruiser’s face when he came in staggering and making such an obnoxious ass out of himself? Bruiser might only be seven, but he can tell when his dad isn’t acting normal. Just like I could with my mom when I was his age.
I smack the bottle out of Z’s hands while it’s still at his lips. It clatters to the tile, the rest of the liquid fizzing onto the floor.
“What the hell, Harp?” he asks like he’s the injured party. “I was thirsty.”
I get right up in his face but don’t let myself touch him—I’m shaking with such fury. “You better start fucking talking. What are you on and how dare you come in here like this?”
For a second his face shuts down in that familiar way like when he was a kid and I’d come over after Frank had beat him. Usually it gets me to back off, but not this fucking time.
“Tell me!” I scream an inch away from his face.
He jerks back from me, smacking the back of his skull right into the concrete wall. Which maybe cracks some sense into his head, or maybe he’s just still so fucked up from whatever he’s on, for once, he actually starts talking.
“Fine, you want me to tell you?” he shouts, taking a step forward to get back in my face, looking just as pissed off as I am. “I’ll tell you, princess. None of this is real! You live here, in your pretty little fairyland, but none of this is fucking real!”
I’m the one pulling back this time. “What does that mean?”
He lets out an ugly scoff. “I mean this—” he reaches over and grabs a stack of papers off my desk, then flings them to the ground. “—isn’t real. And this—” he grabs another stack, throwing it against the wall. “—None of it’s real!”
“Stop it! You’re talking crazy.”
I reach out to try to stop him when he grabs for the laptop on my desk, but he’s too fast and manic. He yanks it out of the way before I can get it.
“Don’t you dare!” I glare him down, feeling murderous.
All my designs are on that machine. Yeah, most of them are backed up—I think—but I’m not sure.
And besides, I love that fucking laptop.
I bought it with my hard-earned money after I paid off the first year’s lease for the shop and finally got my credit good enough that banks would actually approve me for real financing—
“It was never real,” Z whispers before flinging the laptop, Frisbee-style, at the concrete wall.
“No!” I shout. “You bastard, you fucking bastard. What is fucking wrong with you?” I fly at him, and I don’t think I’m going to hit him, but I’m so furious—
He snatches up my wrists anyway and tugs me against his chest. “I’m sorry, Harp. But it’s just you and me. None of this is real. They’ll take it all away.”
I struggle in his grasp even as he tries to close his arms around me.
“They’ll take it all away,” is all he keeps saying.
If this were mental illness, that’d be one thing. But I know it’s only because he’s fucking high. It makes me so Goddamn furious, I knee him in the balls.
He lets go of me with a deep grunt and I back away, breathing hard, hair in my face.
“What the fuck, Z? What are you on?”
He wheezes, clutching his balls, and then he starts to laugh, a deep, unsettling laugh. “I knew you’d find out eventually what a miserable sack of shit I am.”
I should stay mad at him.
I should pour whatever’s left of his beer on his head, tell him this is it, and that Bruiser and I are leaving him.
If I’m honest, really honest in the deep-down place I don’t let myself look very often, it’s not the first time I’ve thought about it.
In most people’s eyes, this would be the last straw. The prolonged absences, the missed texts. The way I’ve caught him in a lie a time or two, about not being where he said he was.
Okay, more than a time or two.
He keeps secrets from me. I’m not that stupid.
I always just chalked it up to Z being Z. That it was his way of feeling in control of his life, and that as long as he kept showing up for Bruiser, well… didn’t I know how important it was to have a dad who kept showing up, even if it was a day or two after he promised sometimes?
But this…
If I’m also looking in that deep-down honest place… well, I can tell things have been a little different lately.
The shadows under his eyes have been deeper. His gaze dart away a little quicker when I ask him how his haul went.
And he’s a little faster to pull away and shower after our rough, routine fuck each time he gets home. It’s like he can’t wait to get inside me but is furious about it all at the same time, and then just as eager to get away again.
And I’m the sad sack of shit who’s desperate for any spare ounce of love and physical affection I can get.
Not any fucking more.
He’s not the only one who can wall himself off.
Goosebumps prickle as I feel myself go cold. I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring Z’s clear misery in front of me.
“Talk,” I demand. “Right here. Right now. Or so help me Jesus, I will take Bruiser and we will pack up and leave your ass.”
I see my words impact Z. He flinches like I have smacked him, even though I’m standing perfectly, frigidly still.
“You can’t,” he whispers, eyes downcast.
“Oh I can and I will,” I bite out.
“No, I mean, you can’t.” His voice breaks, tears spilling fast now. “I fucked up. I fucked up big, Harp.”
He starts banging his head with a fist. “God, I’m such a fuck-up!”
“Stop it, Z! Just tell me what happened!”
“I have a gambling problem. And I didn’t just lose our savings—I took out a line of credit against the shop. I used your name. I told them we were expanding, that we needed the cash flow—”
He drags a hand through his hair, shaking. “I thought I could win it back before you ever noticed. I thought I could fix it.”
His eyes snap to mine, desperate. “But I maxed it out. Everything’s gone. The accounts, the savings—everything. And now they want payments we can’t make.”
His voice drops, small and wrecked.
“You can’t leave me because I’m all you have left.”