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I take a long drag off my cigarette and blow the smoke in her face. “Yeah, Wendy, I am. ’Cause it looks like you’re getting exactly what you fucking deserve.”

I leave her standing there, wondering what kind of future she thinks she’s going to have when, at nineteen years old, she’s decided that a good-looking guy who hits her is more appealing than one who’s scarred but treated her like gold.

My emotions are broiling when I get behind the wheel of my old pickup truck. Two years after the accident, and Wendy still has the ability to twist the knife—reminding me that, even after seeing her every single day for three hundred and eighty-six days—I never realized her shitty-ass version of teen love came with a condition, and that condition waslooks. Everything I did for her wasforgotten in an instant once I wasn’t good-looking enough for her anymore.

Back then, I’d never pinned her for the shallow type. I was wrong. Just like I was wrong about a lot of things and a lot of people. I was served a crash course in reality after I was pushed into that fire, and it still eats at me like acid because this isn’t supposed to be my life and I don’t know how the hell to change it.

I shouldn’t be driving, drunk, and underage with a bag of drugs in my pants, but I drive home in a rage anyway, not giving two fucks if I get pulled over and thrown in jail.

By the time I get home, it’s after 2:00 a.m., and my father is in the dark living room, dozing on the couch with a horror movie playing on the television. My parents always go to bed together, so I can only assume he stayed up to wait for me. I creep by him on my way to my room, but I trip over a dog toy in the middle of the floor and then bang into the coffee table, which I could’ve sworn was two feet to the right.

“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing my shin.

My father stirs and sits up, squinting in my direction against the glare of the television. “Ty? That you?”

“Go to bed,” I reply, swaying.

Instead, he stands and flicks on the lamp next to the couch, narrowing his eyes at me.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“I can smell the alcohol on you from here. You been drinking again?”

Obviously.I lean against the wall to keep from falling on my ass. “Don’t start, okay? I’ve had enough shit for one day.”

He steps closer and grabs my shoulder, pulling me off the wall. His six-foot-four muscular frame looms over me. My father wasa badass back in the day, and he’s still tough enough to kick my ass if he wanted to.

“Stand up like a man, Tyler,” he says. “You drove home like this?”

My vision blurs, and I see two of him in front of me. “Yeah…”

“You tryin’ to get killed? Or kill someone else?”

I blow out a breath and shove my hand through my long, tangled hair. All I want to do is lie down before the nausea rippling through me makes a messy appearance. “No… just blowin’ off some steam.”

He rubs his forehead in frustration. “This shit is gonna stop.Today.Your mother and I aren’t going to sit back and watch you throw your life away—”

“What life, Pop?” I scoff. “What fucking life do I have?”

“Any life you want.”

“Like this? Looking like this?”

“Scars don’t define you, Tyler. What you do—and how you treat others—does. You’re hurting. You’re mad at the world. I get it. More than you know.” A hint of sadness and regret deepens his tone. “But people live with far worse problems than what you’re dealing with. Stop letting this ruin you. You’re better than this.”

No one seems able to grasp that, to me, Iamruined. Broken and wrecked and wandering around lost without a compass. “Well, sorry I’m such a big disappointment to you. Thank God you got five other kids to be proud of.”

His eyes soften, my words hitting him like a punch. “That never even crossed my mind. I’ve always been proud of you. You’ve always been special. But you need some help getting out of this fucking hole you’re in. You think I’m just going to let you get drunk and high every day?”

“I’m nineteen. I can do whatever the hell I want.”

“Not under my roof you won’t. And not in my business. This bullshit of coming to the shop stoned every day is gonna stop, too. It’s time to grow up. I want you in rehab tomorrow.”

No way am I going to rehab to sit around with a bunch of drunks and addicts sharing my feelings and listening to theirs. I’m not like them at all, and I’d rather gouge out my own eyes and ears than put myself through that.

“Fuck that.” I push past him, but then I turn back. “And ya know what? Fuck all this. I’m outta here.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. “I’ll just get out of your house and your shop for good.”