Crossroads

1. Alex

The clanging of metal echoes through the garage, a sharp reminder that no matter how much I try to block out the noise, it always finds a way in. 

The wrenches, the hissing air compressor, the muted hum of the radio playing a song I've heard a thousand times—all of it blends together, creating a kind of rhythm I've started to rely on. It's the only thing that makes sense these days. Cars don't lie. They break, you fix them, and for a little while, something works the way it's supposed to.

I slide out from under the old Ford pickup, wiping my hands on a rag already streaked with grease. The light from the garage fluorescents is too harsh, the kind that turns everything a sickly shade of yellow. There's a clock above the door, ticking toward ten, but I'm not in any rush to leave.

 There's nothing waiting for me outside these walls anyway.

The pickup belongs to some guy who stopped by this morning, saying it kept stalling out on the highway. I told him it was probably the carburetor, but he just nodded like he didn't understand a word I said. That's how it usually goes around here—people bring you their problems and hope you know how to fix them, even when they don't have a clue themselves. I guess that's what I'm good at. Fixing things other people can't.

But it's different with people. I can't fix people. I learned that the hard way.

I glance over at my phone, face down on the workbench, where it's been all night. No new messages. Not that I expected there to be.

 It's been months since Sam left, and I'm still waiting for the part where it starts to feel normal again, like I'm supposed to just move on. But every time I think I'm getting somewhere, it sneaks up on me—the memory of her walking out, the way she didn't even turn around to say goodbye. The way it felt like a punch to the gut.

I toss the rag onto the bench and stare at the half-empty toolbox in front of me. My hands are steady, even when everything else feels like it's falling apart. That's something, I guess.

The door to the garage creaks open, and for a second, I think it might be Ray coming in to lock up. But no, it's just the wind blowing through the old hinges. Ray's long gone for the night. He left hours ago, telling me not to stay too late. But what's the point of going home when all it means is sitting on a couch in a place that never really felt like mine? I pay rent for a one-bedroom that's too big for one person, and too quiet.

I pull out a cigarette from the pack in my back pocket and light it, exhaling a stream of smoke that curls up toward the ceiling. I shouldn't smoke in the garage—Ray's made that clear—but he's not here to stop me, and I need something to cut through the fog in my head.

The problem with this town is that it's too small. Everyone knows everyone's business, and they don't forget. You make one mistake, and it follows you around like a stray dog, waiting to sink its teeth in when you least expect it. I used to think I could outrun it, but you can't outrun a place like this. You either stay or you leave, and I've been stuck in the in-between for as long as I can remember.

I take another drag and lean back against the hood of the truck. The air smells like oil and burnt rubber, mixed with the faintest trace of summer rain from earlier in the evening. It's the kind of smell that clings to you and gets under your skin. The kind that makes you realize how deeply this place has embedded itself in you, whether you wanted it to or not.

There was a time when I had plans. Big ones. I'd save enough money to get out of here, find a job in the city, start fresh. I'd escape the mess I made with Sam, the wreck of my family, and the ghosts that seem to haunt every corner of this town. But it turns out life doesn't care much about your plans. Something always gets in the way—bills, obligations, that sense of duty to a place that's given you nothing but dirt under your nails.

The pickup's engine coughs when I turn the key in the ignition, but it roars to life after a couple of tries. I let it idle for a minute, listening for anything that might sound off, but it's smooth enough. At least something's working the way it's supposed to. I kill the engine and drop the keys on the front seat.

"Another day, another fix," I mutter under my breath.

It's quiet again when I step outside, the garage door clanging shut behind me. The streets are empty, just the distant hum of a few passing cars and the soft buzz of streetlights. This part of town shuts down early. By ten o'clock, there's nothing left but the sound of your own thoughts and the weight of everything you've been trying to forget.

I walk down the gravel path leading away from the garage, kicking a loose stone as I go. The cigarette dangles between my fingers, the ash burning down to the filter. My place is only a few blocks away, but tonight, it feels like it's a world away.

 Maybe that's because going home isn't really the same thing as finding peace.

When I reach my door, I hesitate for a second before pushing it open. The same old smell of cheap beer and stale air greets me. I flick the light switch, illuminating the bare walls and the stack of dishes I still haven't gotten around to washing. I drop my keys on the counter and stare at the clock hanging crooked above the sink. Ten-thirty. Still too early to sleep, but too late to pretend I've got anywhere else to go.

I lean against the doorframe and finish the cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward and disappear into nothing. It's funny how easy it is for things to slip away, to fade, just like that. You don't even realize it's happening until there's nothing left.

I crush the butt in the ashtray and stare out the window. Another night in a town that never changes. Another night trying to figure out how to fix something that can't be fixed.

The funny thing is, I keep hoping for something different. Something that'll make me believe there's more to life than busted cars and broken promises.

But so far, everything's failed.