TWO YEARS LATER
Asa
My cell phone vibrates against my hip, the ringtone assaulting my ears. Cursing, I push myself from underneath the side of the 2000 5.0 Mustang, the wheels of the creeper rolling smoothly over the cement of the mechanic shop’s floor. Once I clear the undercarriage, I push to my feet. Impatience rides me as I snatch the phone from my jeans pocket. I’ve been working on pulling out the drive shaft so I can put in the universal joint, and since this particular customer is a fanatic about his car and a bit of an asshole, I want it done as soon as possible. I don’t need this distraction.
But Lizzo telling someone the truth hurts means only one thing.
I swipe my thumb over the cell’s screen, silencing the ringtone.
“Rose, what’s wrong?” Because if my ten-year-old niece is calling me at one o’clock in the middle of a school day, something is definitely wrong.
Color me surprised.
When isn’t something wrong?
“Uncle Asa, it’s not my fault,” Rose wails in my ear.
Before I can answer, another voice joins the conversation in the background. “Rose, I told you I would call your uncle. Hand over the phone.”
Squeezing my eyes closed, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Shit. I know that voice. Am very familiar with it since I’ve heard it several times this school year—and it’s only October. The principal, Mrs. Reyes, and I have a love-hate relationship. I love when a day goes by and her number doesn’t pop up on my phone, and she hates to see me coming. Because when she does see me, it means my niece is in her office for whatever bullshit and mayhem Rose decided to let loose on any given day. Fourth grade, and already has her own personalized seat in the principal’s office.
Just… fuck.
My older sister died a little over a year ago in a car accident, and for some unfathomable reason she named me as her daughter’s guardian. I love my niece—adore her—but, I’m a twenty-nine-year-old single man who owns a garage and works more hours than the sun sees the sky. I’m the uncle who dropped by mostly on occasions that required gifts or turkey with bear hugs, candy, and gentle teasing before dipping again. I’m not the nurturing fatherly type by any stretch of the imagination. And I’m damn sure not equipped to handle a still-grieving, acting-out preteen.
And most of the time, Rose agrees.
Loudly.
This last year has been an emotional roller coaster of anger, pain, sorrow, helplessness, and frustration. For both of us. And every day since my sister’s lawyer informed me that I would be responsible for making sure Rose grew into a responsible, well-adjusted, and contributing member of society, I’ve asked myself “What the fuck was Mona thinking?” at least twice a day.
And I’d ante up my prized, autographed Russell Wilson Seahawks jersey that Mrs. Reyes poses that very question to herself each time she has to call me down to her office.
“Mr. Hunt, this is Mrs. Reyes, the principal at the elementary school.” The principal’s cool-under-pressure voice that must be a prerequisite for her profession echoes in my ear. She greets me as if we aren’t old acquaintances by now. Hell, if she came to my shop, she’d probably qualify for the friends-‘n’-family discount. “There’s been an incident with Rose. Could you please come to the school as soon as possible for a conference?”
God no. “Yes.” I scrub a rough hand down my face. “I’ll be there shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hunt.”
I end the call and shove my cell back in my front pocket, blowing a hard breath.
“Everything okay, Ace?” my friend and employee Jake Donavan asks, rolling out from underneath a ’70 Chevy Nova. That’s what Hunt Auto is known for—restoring older cars, as well as the usual tune-ups, alignments, and engine work. And Jake is one of the best. He’s also been with me the longest, as he was here when my uncle owned the place. Though several years older than me, we became good friends after my second year in college ended in a spectacular blaze of glory with an obliterated ACL and the termination of my football career. So he knows almost everything that’s gone down in my life in the last ten years. One look at my face and a wry, sad smile twists his mouth. “Rose?”
Yeah, he knows only one person is capable of putting this particular look of “Jesus Christ, what now?” on my face.
“I have to head to the school,” I reply, snatching a rag out of my back pocket and wiping my hands. I’ll wash them before I go, too, but by now the shit is probably part of my DNA. “Can you take over here for about an hour?”
He nods his head toward the lobby and the entrance. “I got you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Twenty minutes later, I walk into the elementary school’s front office. The administrative assistant, a pretty woman in her mid-twenties with beautiful, long dreads and shaved sides, grins at me, her hazel eyes bright behind her blue-rimmed glasses.
“Hi, Mr. Hunt. How’re you doing today?” she greets. All that perkiness has the skin between my shoulder blades itching.
I grunt, glancing at the closed door bearing the “Principal” gold plate. “Been better.”
“Well,” she gathers a pile of folders and taps them on the wide desk before sliding them in a metal rack, “adult quokkas toss their babies at predators so they can escape. So chin up. Compared to them, you’re parenting isn’t that bad.” She gives me two thumbs-up.