“Saw you walk into your class on my way to Mixed Media. Our classrooms are down the hall from each other. Relax.” I rub the dull ache in my rib cage until it subsides. She’s got to do better than that next time. That was weak.

Waverly pulls up to a mechanic’s shop with gray cinderblock walls and five bays. A yellow sign with black and red lettering says, “A1 Auto Repair.” She slams on her brakes, which I’m guessing is her way of telling me to get the fuck out. God, I’d kill to hear her say “fuck” or “damn.” Or even “hell.”

For a second, I debate asking if she’ll come pick me up in a couple hours, but I don’t dare. If looks could kill…

“Thanks for the ride.” She peels out of the parking lot before I have a chance to shut the door behind me. “All right, then.”

I’m greeted by jingle bells on the door and a cashier with a nametag reading “Liberty” across her pinstriped button-down. It’s a mechanic’s shirt, but she has it open just enough to offer the world a shameless sneak-peak at her cleavage. Her hair is long, dark, and wild, and she has the same glass-blue eyes as Waverly.

“Can I help you?” She snaps her gum between cherry-red lips. She’s so busy working her Bubble Yum six ways from Sunday she doesn’t bother to smile.

“I’m Jensen. Mark Miller sent me here for a job.”

“Ah, yes. Uncle Mark,” she says, picking up the phone and pressing three buttons. The cuffs of her shirt are hiked up just enough to show she’s got a whole sleeve of tattoos going on. Judging by her smooth baby face, she’s barely old enough to drink. “Dad, that guy that Uncle Mark sent is here.” She hangs up. “You can have a seat. He’ll be out.”

I locate a dingy aluminum chair and grab a stale issue of Car and Driver, flipping to the middle and hoping to find a half-interesting article somewhere.

“So, you’re one of the Millers now.” Liberty’s mouth turns into a knowing half-smile.

“Not a Miller.” I clear my throat and flip the page. It’s not that I’m proud to be a Mackey, it’s just there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be a fucking Miller.

“Yeah, but you’re Uncle Mark’s third wife’s son from another marriage. Right? Did I get that right?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s okay. I know about their, uh, lifestyle,” she laughs. “My mom and Waverly’s dad are brother and sister. We’re not poly, or anything, but we know about them. Family’s family, right?”

I flip another page and mutter, “Forever and always.”

“Uncle Mark is fucking nuts.” She says it with a heavy connotation, as if I should know what she’s talking about by now.

“Only known him a couple days.”

“Well, you’re in for a real treat.” She slides her body against the counter and leans against her arm, yawning. She’s far too young to be this tired at three thirty in the afternoon. “Sorry. Out way too late last night.”

“That supposed to impress me?” I’m fucking with her, but it’s mostly because this Car and Driver magazine is old as hell. She should take it as a compliment.

“Look, I’m not trying to impress you. Just making a statement. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re too young for me. Plus, I’m taken.”

“Poor guy.”

She scoffs and flips me off with a shit-eating grin. I kind of like her. If I were looking for a friend, I might consider someone like her. Her sass isn’t unlike mine, and it’s a breath of fresh air in the boring land of Whispering Hills, Utah. I have a feeling we’re both treading the same dark water, in some way or another.

“Jensen?” A man appears from behind Liberty. His dark hair matches hers, though his eyes are black as coal. He wipes his oil-stained hand on a dirty shop rag and extends it. “I’m Rich. Mark said you needed a job?”

“Mark said you needed a… gofer.”

“I do.” He motions for me to follow him out to the shop. A team of young guys are rolling tires, hoisting cars up on lifts, and running hydraulic tools. We weave between a sea of vehicles until we reach a back room where all the parts are kept. “You familiar with car parts?”

I nod.

“Good.” He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his dirty gray pants and rocks back and forth on his heels. He may as well be chewing the end of a piece of straw. He takes me in from head to toe, sizing me up before he makes it official. “Pay is eight bucks an hour. You can work a couple hours after school during the week. Saturday mornings too, if you want to pick up extra hours.”

“I’ll have to look into transportation, but I think I can make that work.”

His brows furrow. “Got an old diesel Dodge in the back. Doesn’t run. Been meaning to fix it up myself and sell it. If you can get it running, it’s yours. You can work off the parts, if you need to. Just keep a running tab with Lib. Keys are in it.”

I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a karmic pay off, but I wholeheartedly accept.

I spend the next two hours running parts back and forth. The guys are friendly enough, but I’m not here to make friends. By seven, Rich says I can mess around with the Dodge for a bit, which is good because I have no other way to get home, and I’m not about to phone in any favors from Waverly.

I pop the hood and tinker around a bit, running back and forth from the shop floor and grabbing various tools and parts. Mostly new spark plugs and a battery get it running, but it sounds like a dying cow. It’s going to need a timing belt soon and a few other odds and ends, but it should get me back and forth for the next few days.

“Congratulations,” Rich says come eight o’clock. He hands me the title to the Dodge with his signature on it and shakes my hand. I get the feeling he’s taking pity on me. I don’t like the pity, but I’m not in a position to turn down the free truck.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now get on home, boy. I know Mark likes his kids home by a decent hour.”

I restrain myself from telling him I’m not one of Mark’s kids. I’m Kath’s son, biologically speaking, and I’m only passing through for a few months. Instead I bite my tongue, offer a nod, and climb up in my silver and blue truck.

Blazing through the quiet streets of Whispering Hills in my loud-as-fuck ride, I’ve never felt more alive. For the first time in years, I’ll get to go home and not be met with the Spanish Inquisition, be slapped around, or be reminded I’m a piece of shit disappointment.

I almost smile.

Instead, I crank the radio, roll down the window, and go for a drive until the moon is high in the sky.

By the time I pull up in front of the street I’ve now dubbed the Suburban Compound, the main house is lit up like the Fourth of July. But the silhouette of a man peering out the living room window with his hands on his hips is concerning.

I drag myself up the steps and show myself in, bracing for rapid-fire questions from Mark-of-Many-Wives Miller. It’s hard to take a man serious who truly believes with all his heart that marrying multiple women is a straight ticket into the pearly gates of Heaven.

“Before you say anything,” I begin. “I stayed late after work fixing up this old truck Rich gave me.”

“I called Rich.” Mark’s face is the color of a beet. I never knew the human face could turn such a garish purplish red. “He said you left the shop two hours ago. Where were you, Jensen? What do you have to say for yourself?”

None of the wives are in sight. Discipline must not be on their chore list for tonight.

“I went for a drive. Had to clear my head.”

“You call, Jensen. You don’t just take off and not tell anyone where you’re going.” The vein in his head is protruding, and he’s halfway to an aneurysm by now. He’s trying to make it sound like he gives a shit about me, but I know what this really is. It’s a control thing with him. He’s got his wives and daughters and children under his thumb, but not me. He doesn’t quite know how to wrangle me in yet. News flash—he’ll never be able to. “Your mother was worried sick.”