Page 5 of Dirty Mechanic

His hands are hard. His grip, unyielding. He shoves me down, whispering his ownership into my skin with every violation, his alcohol-laced breath fogging my eyes.

When it’s over, he leaves without a word.

I stare at the tangled sheets, the empty room, and the hollow version of myself reflected in the cracked mirror.

The door still swings open, broken, and the room spins.

Not like this.

You’re not dead yet, Annabelle. Run!

I escape that night, aware that if this backfires, I can land in a cell Mike would decorate with my tears.

The sun’s barely up, all soft gold and promises, when I kneel at Sarah’s grave. Dew soaks my jeans, and the air smells of wet earth, sweet blossoms, and cruel grief. A rusted wind chime hangs from the willow tree above, its sorrowful notes echoing through the quiet.

I brush away a few leaves at the base of her headstone. Simple. Just how she’d have wanted: her name, the dates, and nothing else. No flourishes, no marble angels. Just the blunt reality of a life cut short.

A bouquet of her favorite daisies rests at the bottom, a little wilted at the edges. I touch the carved letters like I might find her heartbeat in the grooves.

“You’d love how Blake turned out.” My voice cracks. “He’s got your heart. All the parts I didn’t know how to give him.”

I rub the center of my chest where it always tightens. It’s not like heartburn. No, this is the slow pain. The guilt kind. The one that never leaves, no matter how many times I whisper apologies to the dead.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” I say again. The words hit the air and vanish. Like always.

Because if I’d just fixed the brakes, she’d still be here.

The wind rustles through the trees, soft and floral, brushing against my skin like a memory I don’t deserve. Sometimes, when I let myself believe in signs, I think it’s her. But signs don’t matter when you’re the one who twisted the wrench on fate.

“It’s been years, and I still can’t fix what I broke. I have to win this May Day race or lose our farm.”

A slammed car door echoes from the parking lot. I turn and see Blake striding toward me with hands jammed deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and nervous energy trailing his steps.

“Morning, Dad.” He tips back his hat.

“Morning, kid.” I stand, brushing the damp off my jeans. I try to look casual, but he sees right through me. He always has.

He looks at the headstone. “Talking to Mom?”

I nod. “Yeah. Something like that. What brings you out here?”

He hesitates. The hat comes off and the brim-twisting begins. It’s an old tell of nerves from when he used to sneak cookies before dinner.

“I came to tell Mom something important,” he says.

My eyebrows lift. “You look serious.”

He rubs his palms together like he’s trying to light a fire. Then he blurts it out like he can’t hold it in a second longer.

“I’m gonna ask Misty to marry me.”

The news hits me like a semi.

Marriage.

My boy. My little grease-monkey-turned-man is proposing.

I see it all in a blink: the baby with a gummy smile, the toddler who once stuck a socket wrench in a toaster, the teenager who stayed up fixing engines as if it were his birthright, the man who now runs a massive hog farm.