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“Did you think I’d come home and be super successful, and then you’d love me?”
She turns to face me. “We do love you. Even if you aren’t successful.”
“Jesus Christ. Forget breakfast. I’m not hungry.”
I go back to the bedroom, lock my door, and flip on the radio. Idle chatter breaks through the static, something about nearby construction, but I don’t hear any recognizable call signs.
I click the button and speak over the radio. “Three Amigos, this is Dropout. Come in.”
“You sound pretty. How old are you, Dropout?” someone says.
“I’m looking for Three Amigos. If you aren’t him, fuck off,” I say.
“Ooh wee, you got a mouth on you.”
“Dropout, this is Three Amigos, and if Jangles doesn’t get off this fucking station, I’ll cut his balls off the next time I see him.”
The other man disappears, though I’m unsure if he’s still listening. Either way, I don’t care. The prospect of talking to Kane warms me. I know it’s him because I recognize that low, annoyed southern twang.
“Three Amigos, I’m having a bad time here. Over.” I release the button and rest the mic on my lap.
“Copy that.” His rich voice blares from the speakers, and I lower the volume to keep my parents from hearing. I’m too old for this, but I can’t let my father take away my one tie to Kane and the boys. “Having trouble adjusting to life, Dropout? I know damn well you can adjust to just about anything.”
“No. It’s not that. I just want to come home. Over.”
“You are home.”
“No, this isn’t my home anymore. That truck is my home. You are my home.”
After a long pause, he responds. “Are you out of your mind? This isn’t the place for you.”
I sigh and click the button again, but my voice breaks before I can say anything else. My parents don’t want me, and it’s clear he doesn’t want me either.
I raise the mic again. “You know what? This was stupid. Roger that. Dropout, over and out.”
I’m literally just spewing radio lingo at this point. I throw the microphone onto the desk and climb into bed. My heart aches for them, but I won’t beg him. He should know that by now.
I start to doze off as the hours pass by, but I’m startled awake by the sound of the radio.
“Dropout, this is Three Amigos. You there?”
I don’t reach for the microphone because I’m petty and still irritated. I slam a pillow over my head.
“I know you’re there,” Kane says, low and almost sweet. “I’m still here.” Which means he pulled over somewhere to stay within radius.
I grab the microphone. “Why are you still here?”
“Because you don’t ask for help unless you need it. Shit, even if you need it, you’re not likely to ask.”
Fair.
“I don’t want help,” I say. “I just want you.”
“Beg for me, Dropout.”
“Wh-what? I’m not doing that over the radio.”
“Give the other truckers a show, and I’ll come pick you up.”
