Page 12 of Beautifully Broken
Enid
“Ugh, I hate that guy.” Mace grumbles on the drive home for probably the third time since Conrad Hoyer left Shell Shock’d.
I pretended not to know who he was. However, when raising your little brother, whose favorite sport is hockey and who wants to be a sportscaster one day, you have to pay attention.
Unfortunately, Conrad is one of those players that I cannot take my eyes off of.
“What did he do to you?” I chuckle at him.
“Sis, he literally has only the worst record in NHL history and probably has more kids running around than Dad did.” Ouch .
Our father was a terrible man; his life was full of troubles, and one day his addiction caught up to him.
Mace and I were kids, lucky or not so lucky enough to be stuck being raised by him—all of our half-siblings were in the care of their mothers.
Our mother left us behind the day she left our father.
When he passed away and I was legally an adult with a stable job, I went to court and got custody of Mace.
At the time, Mace was ten and I had just turned nineteen—there was no way in hell I was letting Mace end up in foster care.
It hasn't been easy parenting a teenager when I was just one myself, but Mace and I have made it work.
I love this kid and am doing everything I can to provide for him.
“Yikes, Mace. You’re probably right.” I tell him, adding, “But don’t worry, I’m not planning on hanging out with Conrad.”
“Don’t say yikes, you’re a millennial.” His nose crinkles in disgust. “Good because I don’t want to have to tell the guys that you’re dating a hockey player and that said player is Conrad Hoyer, not someone awesome like Montez.”
“I’ll make sure to ask Conrad for Montez’s number if he comes in again, so I don’t disappoint you.
Plus, I’m a zoomer, just like you, bud. Sheeeeesh .
” This pulls a long and hardy chuckle from my brother.
His voice cracking a little at the end reminds me further that my little brother is growing up.
“How was the tour? Do you think he’s going to donate?
” Mace asks as we pull into the driveway of our small home.
We each have our bedrooms, and we share a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living room, along with access to running water and electricity.
It’s not much, but it’s home. I got lucky when I was looking for a rental and met Gramma Judy.
She was moving into a retirement community but didn’t want to part with her home.
Her husband passed away a few years back; they had raised their family and paid off this home, so she was looking for someone to rent to who genuinely needed and wanted the space. Enter Mace and I.
“I think it went well, and it seems like he might be interested. I think if he were looking for anything except turtle information, he wouldn’t have stayed through the whole tour.”
“He better, or next time he comes in, I’m accidentally dropping turtle shit on his head,” Mace says, seriousness in his tone as he gathers his backpack and hops out of the car.
“Language, mister,” I yell after him.
“Sorry, sis.” He throws a hand in the air, not bothering to wait for me to get out of the car.
***
We went two weeks with no online donation from Conrad Hoyer, and I thought maybe Mace was right, and he didn’t care about the turtles. That is, until I’m standing at the front desk and he waltzes through the front doors of Shell Shock’d again.
“Didn’t Mace tell you that you could donate online?
So you can and I quote ‘stop ogling’ me.
” I ask, quirking a brow. Conrad approaches the front desk for the second time in two weeks.
Though today, he waltzes in with a little less swagger, and the purple beneath his eyes is pronounced, the confidence he usually carries seems to have faded a bit.
“He did, but I’m old school and preferred to drop off a check to this lovely establishment. Figured I should do it while he was at school so I don’t get punched.” He smirks as he pulls a sealed envelope from behind his back, or is that more of a smolder he’s giving me?
“Smart move, his words would probably hurt more, though. Preteens are tough.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with one myself.” He laughs.
“Some days I don't.” A little bit of my truth interwoven with the joke, “Anyway, thanks for swinging by. Shell Shock’d appreciates your time and donation, Hotshot.”
“Before I go, how’s Bart doing?” He places his elbows on the desk, leaning in, eyes boring into mine.
“Bubbly as ever,” I say, and he laughs, loud and boisterous, and it echoes off the wall. “Mr. Hoyer, I’m not that funny.”
“I thought it was good.” His laugh dies down, “Next question. Are you single?”
“I am, but unfortunately for you, there’s no chance in hell that’s happening. You’re dismissed.” I say, gesturing between the two of us and waving him off. I can’t add a complicated man to my never-ending pile of responsibilities right now.
“We’ll see about that, Bubbles.” He winks at me before heading towards the doors.
“Not a chance in hell, Hoyer. I’d rather choke on plastic in the ocean.” I sing at his back as the doors close behind him.