Look at You

Chapter 28

28

"You live in my house; you get a job."

"Riley, you just picked me up—"

"No buts. No ifs. No ands." It's barely 30 degrees, but Riley rolls down his truck window to spit out of it. "And you know your grandfather would say the same thing."

Air flows quickly out of my flared nostrils, but I don't say anything. Because he's right.

We don't turn on the radio. The wind whistles around Riley's old Ford and the dusty two-lane highways are empty, like usual. The grass is yellow and bleak, covered in patches of dirt-brown snow here and there. I want to enjoy this. My first time in a car unsupervised in 12 months. My first time holding my iPhone in nearly a year. No one telling me where I have to be, what I have to do.

Well, except Riley. Because he's booked me an appointment at the Middletown unemployment agency within one hour of my release from rehab.

I've been writing my to-do list since a month ago. It's on a loop in my head, like a tic. There's no room for anything else, let alone enjoyment.

Sell grandpa's stuff. Save money. Move to Boston. Figure out what comes next.

"Alright, son." I haven't noticed that the car is stopped. "I'll be waiting here."

I eye Riley's scraggly gray beard. The color matches his eyes and the weariness in them. Just short of 70. Playing dad to a kid just short of 30. You could see the disdain in the way he carried himself around me. Like the burden of having me around was physically sitting on his back. I get out of the truck without a word.

I reach in the back and grab the button-down I had pulled haphazardly from my suitcase the second he told me where we were headed. I shrug off my jacket and on the button-down. I don't think I match up all the buttons correctly, but I'm too pissed off to care.

The agency sits in a sad quasi-strip mall that hasn't had a new business in twenty years. Next to Middletown Unemployment is Dollar Tree, and next to that is a salon with its windows boarded up. I take a deep breath and push the door open. It chimes as I walk in.

Now it's even more obvious that this place hasn't been touched in 20 years. The floors have a thick layer of grime and the paint on the secretary's desk is peeling. She's Riley's age or older and her wrinkled cheeks flush pink when I walk in.

"Good morning," I say. "Cameron Lewis?" I eye the waiting room. Empty.

"Of course," she stands at attention out of her chair, but she doesn't need to. "Just down this hallway on the left, Mr. Lewis. It's the third door. Mr. Carlton is waiting for you."

I nod, smile graciously. "Thank you, ma'am." What a fucking fraud I am.

The third door on the left is already ajar. I knock on it anyway.

"Mr. Lewis! Please come in." Carlton's voice tells me he's smoked a pack a day since this building was built. I trudge in, forcing my feet not to drag.

I hold out my hand. "Great to meet you sir." It isn't.

"Likewise, likewise. Sit." His face is squished inwards, like a French bulldog's. I bite my tongue and take the chair closest to the door. This one looks like there's been at least a person in it since dinosaurs roamed.

"Resume?"

I'm getting more bitter about being here by the second.

"Um," I pat my pants pockets, but obviously there isn't anything in them. "I actually don't have a copy on me, but—"

"Not a problem. I see you filled out the intake form online before the appointment, which will give me enough." He clears his throat, using his off-white, wired computer mouse to wake up the giant monitor sitting on his desk. It's about as old as the TV sitting in Riley's living room. And I think that one is a '94.

"Alright... Auto body shop work... Football, All-state at Baker High... Impressive...A little architecture... State for Structural Engineering?"

He looks up at me. Seems like Riley has had some fun putting this little form together. "Yes, sir."

"You ever take any architecture work here in Middletown?"

"I was a college intern with Doug Archer," I tell him. "During summer breaks."

He blinks at me like this is the answer to all my problems. "Archer's always hiring," he says slowly, like I'm a non-English speaker and this isn't rural Ohio. I hate him. "Have you tried reaching out?"

I want to respond with a very honest—no, I haven't, because I just got out of rehab 32 minutes ago, and I didn't even make this appointment.

"No sir," I say instead.

Carlton leans back in his chair. I'm worried it's about to break under his weight. "I just heard from him last week. He's looking for a temp for a new project. You in?"

"I—" I am trying to figure out how to say no. Because the last time Archer did a favor for me, I promptly got arrested.

"Perfect." I only notice now that the man is wearing a bolo tie. How did it get worse? "I'll share your contact information with him again, so keep your phone on. I presume the number you used on the intake is correct."

"Uh—"

"Great." I am absolutely not getting out of this one. "Alright, son." Carlton stands up. His pants sit far too low on his waist to not have a belt attached to them. He holds a calloused hand out to me again. "Good doing business with you. Let me know how things go."

I pray Doug doesn't call. I don't know how I could face him. "Thank you, sir. I will."

He gives me a final wave as I head back down the hallway. I'm shocked to see someone in the waiting area.

A kid in his twenties, probably. He's got the biggest iPhone they make in his right hand, three cameras on the back, his case an obnoxiously bright red. Air Pods sit obviously in his ears and he looks like he just stepped foot off the cover of J-14 magazine, the way he's dressed. It's just a hoodless sweatshirt and jeans and nice sneakers, but everything looks like he ripped the tags off today.

I hold back a snort. Unemployment my ass. "I think I'm all set," I tell the secretary, leaning into the side of her desk.

"Amazing. Glad you got it all figured out."

"Yes'm, I did. Thank you."

"I hope not to see you again," she giggles at me. I force a corner of my lip upward and start heading for the door.

I feel eyes on me as I'm leaving. I glance toward the only other young heart beating within a ten-foot radius. He's staring at me. Like I'm on exhibit at the Natural History Museum. The Cameron Lewis, 26, Baker exhibit. Like all the news articles are hanging off my button-down.

"Simon Love," the secretary calls. I try not to roll my eyes as I push open the door.