Jackson
She helped him when she didn’t have to.
I didn’t understand. I couldn’t process what had happened the night before. Grace Harris, from the family I despised, helped my father last night. Why would she do that? Why would she reach out a hand to him and take him home? Shower him? Clean up his home?
She could’ve easily just called the cops on him. I should’ve been bailing him out of jail last night, but I didn’t have to do that.
Everything I knew about her family proved the opposite of her actions, yet still…
“Where’s the damn coffee?” Dad muttered, walking into the auto shop, scratching his beard. He looked like shit, but that wasn’t surprising. I was actually shocked he was up before five in the afternoon.
“In the break room where it always is,” I stated dryly.
He walked into the break room and went to pour himself a cup. I tried my best to ignore the small bottle of whiskey he dumped inside before he began to sip.
“How was your night?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Fine. I just passed out.”
Blacked out, you mean.
“Did you hang out with anyone?” I questioned him, wanting to know how much he remembered.
He cocked an eyebrow and sipped his “coffee.” “Who the hell would I hang out with?”
“No one. Forget about it.”
“Already forgotten. Also, clean up this room. It looks like shit in here. Are we running a business or a fucking dump?” he grumbled.
We weren’t running anything. My father hadn’t worked on a car in years. He used to be the best at it, though. I used to really look up to him before the liquor made him too far gone.
Now, he was merely a ghost of the man I used to look up to.
He hadn’t a clue of the events from the night before. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Though, if he found out a Harris was who saved him from himself, he’d probably take another sledgehammer to the pews.
Our family didn’t take handouts.
Especially from the likes of them.
Except maybe she saved him last night. If she hadn’t been there to walk him home, to watch over him, who knew what would’ve happened.
My mind was conflicted, blurred, and I wasn’t sure how to make it clear.
I not only had so much hate for Grace Harris and everything she stood for, but an overwhelming amount of gratitude also.
How could that be? How could I hate and be thankful all at once?
I didn’t know how to feel, so I chose to feel nothing at all and headed back to work. My job was the only thing I had control over, and at that moment, I felt as if I needed some form of control.
Yet even as I worked, the sight of her eyes crossed my mind every other minute. Those stupid, wide-eyed doe eyes that looked so full of kindness.
I wished she didn’t look so kind.
My mind was split in two as I thought about Grace. Part of me was so thankful for her help. I wanted to believe in the kindness that she showed me and trust that she did it from the goodness of her heart. Yet another part of me wished she hadn’t helped my father because that felt like some kind of leverage to me. That she had something over us somehow. That we were some kind of charity case to her. I didn’t want that at all, so I’d make it my mission to pay her back somehow.
