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He gives me an amused look. “You know Sterling Springs? It’s just a little hole in the wall.”
“Yeah. You could say I know it,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m having a full-blown meltdown.
That’s an understatement. I look out at the road signs flashing by, wondering how fast we’re going and if I’d survive jumping out of the moving vehicle. There’s almost no place on earth I would rather be less, save for maybe… actually, no. There is, in fact, no place on earth I’d rather be less.
I turn back to Phil. “Is there any other place you could take me instead?”
He grimaces and shakes his head.
Shit. I guess this is really happening.
I’m going back to Sterling Springs.
It’s the town I grew up in. It’s the town I’ve been afraid to go back to after my family’s history there. To say we aren’t exactly the town’s favorite family is putting it lightly.
Worst of all though, it’s the town where the boy who broke my heart is from—the boy I haven’t talked to in nearly a decade. It’s the town that’s literally named after his family.
CHAPTER 2
SLY
Another Stupid Van?
Lying in bed, alone, on a Friday night might sound boring—scratch that—is boring, or maybe even just plain pathetic, but that’s been my routine for years. Sterling Springs is a small town with one bar and more people moving away than coming in. Some people around here, my family included, might think I’m being anti-social, but my idea of a good time doesn’t involve seeing the same dwindling group of people that I’ve known since childhood at the same tiny bar.
No, I’d rather spend my time off work relaxing or doing literally anything else than going down to The Hatch and probably running into a former hookup. Technically, I might still be working, or at least on call, since I live in the apartment above my family’s garage. We are the only auto repair shop for miles, and being on call is just part of the job. We get the occasional late-night drop-offs for tourists passing through because no one would willingly choose to come here, at least this time of year. We are the number one recommended auto repair shop for roadside assistance in Sterling Springs, which brings us a steady stream of customers. Then again, we’re also the only one.
Either way, having a beer and watching the newest Housewives of Honeycomb Ranch episode sounds far more preferable tonight. I still blame my siblings for getting me addicted to this stupid reality show, but HHR is like a slow-motion train wreck, and now I can’t look away when it’s on.
That’s until I hear my phone buzz on the nightstand. I roll over and reach for it so fast I nearly fall out of bed. I hope it’s the notification I’ve been waiting for. I open the lock screen and immediately feel let down when I see Dad’s contact info pop up.
No. That is not the notification that I wanted.
I scrub my palm over my face and rub my beard. “What, Dad?”
He chuckles. “Wow, if that’s how you greet me, I’d hate to see how you talk to someone you don’t like.”
I huff a laugh because he’s right. My dad is practically my best friend. My two older brothers, Sutton and Slade, both left town to pursue their fancy careers as award-winning chefs. To anyone who doesn’t know us well, our surly banter probably comes off as a genuine dislike of each other. In reality, it’s the result of working together—side by side, at the family garage—every day for over a decade.
I take another swig of my beer and reposition myself against the headboard. If he’s calling this late at night, I know that I’m probably not going to sleep any time soon. “Well, if I don’t like someone, I probably wouldn’t answer their call.”
“You know, sometimes I wonder where you got your charming disposition. It certainly wasn’t from Mom or me.”
“Who knows? Maybe I lost the charming part of me when I lost my foot.”
“Woof, son. Now that’s morbid,” he says, but I don’t miss the little huff of laughter.
I shrug, because neither of us are entirely wrong. Coping with the reality of losing my left foot and lower part of my leg in an accident five years ago wasn’t easy at first, but over time, I was able to start joking about it, as morbid as it might be to some. “So, what’s up? I assume there’s a reason you’re calling me this late at night?”
“Roadside assistance called. I assume you’re home? They said they’d be by in about half an hour to drop off a van and driver.”
Shit. It’s probably some dumb tourist with a flat tire they can’t change themselves because they have some fancy off-road jack that looks cool but don’t know how to operate. As annoying as those weekend warriors might be, I do value safety and would rather fix it for them first thing tomorrow so they don’t get hurt doing it themselves.
I set my beer down on my nightstand. “Yeah, I’m home. I’ll be here when they arrive. Any other details? Driver’s contact information or what’s wrong with the van?”
He lets out a contemplative hum, and I can picture him tapping a finger to his stubbled chin while he looks off into the distance. “Not really. Phil just said that it’s one of those fancy adventure vans and that it’s not recommended to drive in its current state.”
Normally, we at least get some kind of information on what shit show is getting dropped into our laps, but not all the time. “Alright. Well, I’ll handle it. See you in the morning.”
