Page 130 of Break Me

I stay where I am, my hands still wrapped around the grips. Raven’s home. She shouldn't have to sit with this by herself. But I don't know how to walk through that door pretending I believe what the doctor said.

The garage is the only place that still makes sense.

The overhead door groans as it rolls open, and the familiar smell of oil, metal, rubber, and burnt steel settles around me. Usually it reminds me that almost anything can be repaired if you're willing to put in the time.

Today it doesn't.

I set my helmet on the workbench and brace both hands against the scarred wood.

Weeks to months.

No. That’s impossible. They can't know all of that from one scan. There has to be more tests. Another opinion. Someone who's seen this before.

People beat impossible odds every day.

Why not Raven?

Three weeks ago, she was laughing in our kitchen because we thought she might be pregnant. Three weeks. That's all it took for our future to become something I don't recognize anymore.

My grip tightens until the edge of the bench bites into my palms. Before I can think better of it, I shove the helmet off the workbench. It crashes onto the concrete, skids across the garage, and slams into the far wall.

The echo hangs in the silence long after the helmet comes to rest.

But it’s not loud enough.

Not even close.

My arm sweeps across the workbench, sending a tray of sockets clattering to the floor. Tools scatter. A torque wrench bounces once and rolls beneath the lift. The sound explodes outward, metal on concrete, sharp and ugly.

Still not enough.

I slam my fist down on the bench. The sting shoots up my arm, immediate and familiar.

Pain I understand.

Pain I can measure.

This… this thing growing inside her is something I don’t understand. There are no bolts to loosen. No parts to replace.

I grab the nearest chair and fling it across the garage. It crashes into the tool cabinet, leaving a dent in the metal. The rolling cart goes over with one hard shove. Oil cans scatter across the concrete, one splitting open on impact. Dark oil creeps across the floor in an uneven stain.

My breathing comes hard now, not from the effort but from something clawing its way up my chest.

There has to be something.

Someone.

A doctor who doesn't accept weeks.

My hand catches the edge of the lift. Metal rings through the garage as my boot slams into the base. The place that's always been ordered now looks like a storm tore through it. Tools lie where they fell. Oil glistens across the concrete.

Good.

Let it look the way I feel.

Both hands rake through my hair as I pace the length of the garage, my boots leaving dark tracks through the oil.

This is a problem.