His body was coated in tattoos, and if you found a spot that wasn’t, he’d be quick to fix that issue. He spent all his free time working at a tattoo parlor right outside of town. He had dark black and gray hair that he always combed back and piercings all over. If you passed him on the street, you might jump out of your skin in fear until he started talking to you about the latest avocado mask he’d discovered.

He was one of the most positive people in the world, and I was the complete opposite. But, at the same time, our connection made sense—we balanced each other out.

“My dad’s going to throw a fit if he finds out a Harris’s car is in his shop,” I warned. If anyone hated the church more than I did, it was my father.

“He won’t even know,” Alex said, shaking his head back and forth. “I promise I’ll keep our dirty little secret.”

“Your dirty secret. I’m not working on that car. I want nothing to do with it or that family.” The only reason I agreed to let the car stay was because I knew he wouldn’t give it up until he got his way. “But just to be clear, I’m not happy about this.”

“Just to be clear, you’re never happy, so I’ll take that as a good thing. Anyway, I know you and your pops got your issues with that family, but I liked her.”

“You like everyone,” I remarked.

“Yeah, but you gotta admit, she was beautiful in a way—even with the puffy eyes.”

He wasn’t wrong; Grace Harris was beautiful. She had long blond hair and wide blue doe eyes that were filled with fear and wonderment all at once. I’d have been lying if I’d said I hadn’t noticed that her curves fell in all the right places, but that wasn’t shocking. All the Harris females were easy on the eyes. They walked and talked as properly as a Southern belle could—except for Grace when she was falling apart. For the most part, they stood for beauty, charm, and elegance—on the outside, at least. On the inside, they had the ugliest souls, and I wanted nothing to do with them or their piece-of-shit cars.

I still wasn’t sure why I’d stopped to help her in front of the pizza place.

It made no sense whatsoever except for the fact that her breakdown reminded me of my mother.

“Hey, Jack-Jack?” Alex called out, and this time when I looked over at him, I saw the worry in his eyes. It was the same worried look he always gave me when he thought I would fall overboard. “How are you doing? Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. That was what I always said when Alex asked me that question.

Even after I overdosed and almost lost my life over a year ago, I replied in the same fashion. I’m fine.

I was always fine, even when I wasn’t.

“All right. Well, hey, if you don’t want this car to be your new project, you should still find yourself a hobby or something to keep your head on straight. You still doing art and stuff? Maybe you should pick that up again. Are you dating? Maybe go out on some dates, or hell, knit a sweater—anything, really.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m really proud of you.”

“I haven’t done anything,” I replied dryly.

“Exactly.” He nodded. “You haven’t gone off track and fallen back into your old habits. I’m just proud of you, and if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

I shrugged. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Jack-Jack.”

“Oh, and Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop calling me Jack-Jack.”

I went back to the break room and grabbed a few slices of pizza to take over to my dad’s house. When I walked into his living room, I found him passed out drunk on the couch. Sometimes, I pretended he’d passed out from exhaustion, but the truth of the matter was the whiskey lullabies were what put him to sleep most of the time.

I tossed the pizza into the fridge and grumbled as I cleaned up a bit. Dad stayed knocked out on the couch, and every now and then, I’d wander past to check that he was still breathing.

There had been a time in my life when I believed my old man would live forever. There had been a time when he was my hero, and I had thought he could defeat any villain in the whole wide world.

Funny how time had changed my hero into my worst villain.

Funny how life had destroyed my father’s soul.

*

After I finished at my father’s house, I walked to my cabin and went inside. Every piece of that place held a part of my father before the alcohol had overtaken his soul—the paint on the walls, the hardwood floors, the tiles in the bathroom. Everything about the cabin told the story of the man he once was before his life began to crumble.

I’d helped him fix up the place when I was a kid—before Ma left and before Dad found himself addicted to the bottle.

Each night, I sat there in the dark, looking around the space. In the corner of the living room sat an easel and art supplies, and in the spare bedroom, bookshelves filled to the brim with novels lined the walls. Throughout the whole cabin was framed artwork; no room went without one of Ma’s masterpieces. That was the last part of her I still held onto. The cabin was both a gift and a curse to me, reminding me of the past, contrasting sharply with and the present day. It was now a place filled with hollowness.

I welcomed the emptiness and I allowed loneliness to be almost all I knew, and then when it was all too much, I took on my hobby.

Alex didn’t know I already had something to keep me away from the drugs.

Over the past few years, I’d entertained different women in my bed almost every night. It wasn’t anything I was proud of, but it distracted me from my reality. Some I’d hooked up with before, but I usually didn’t remember that until they informed me. Others acted as if it was an achievement to get in my bed and just giggled like damn teenagers.

Sarah, Michelle, Jamie, Kay, Lisa, Rebecca, Susie…

Sky blue eyes, chocolate eyes, hazel, light brown, green, sable…

Each one helped me forget for a while.

Each one shut off my brain.

Each one became my new kind of drug, and slowly but surely, I became addicted.

No one ever stayed the night. I didn’t want them to stay; I just wanted them for a few hours to help me forget. It was the same thing every time: sex, no talking, leave. Sex, no talking, leave. The night Hazel Eyes was leaving, she told me we’d had sex before, and she liked me better when I was doped up.

“Yeah? Well, I liked you better when your mouth wasn’t running and was wrapped around my cock.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she exclaimed, acting as if she hadn’t been just as rude a moment before. “You’re disgusting.”

“Both sets of your lips didn’t seem to mind fifteen minutes ago,” I replied dryly.

It was her turn to flip me off, and I probably deserved it. I could be a real asshole sometimes. The thing was, it seemed people seemed to like the assholes more than the nice pathetic guys.

Hazel Eyes would probably call me up to fuck again soon enough. It was as if women had a magnetic pull to guys who treated them like trash.

Then when they left, I was alone again.

Well, not completely alone.

Tucker was older than before yet still so loyal. Each night, he’d slowly move in my direction, wagging that tail of his, and then he’d crawl into my lap on the couch. Sometimes, I had to help him into my lap, but he always came close to me.

Even on the nights when I felt as if I deserved to be alone.

But still, no matter what I did or said to him, he stayed. He was my friend. The only one I had, and the only one I needed.

Good boy, Tuck, I thought to myself, holding him closer. Good boy.

*

Jackson

Six Years Old

“Ma? Can I have a new name?” I asked one day, walking onto the front porch where she sat painting the sky again. She always painted the sky, and she was really good at it, too.

She tucked her paintbrush behind her ear and raised an eyebrow at me. “What do you mean can you have a new name?”

“Today at school someone told me my name was stupid, and that’s why they didn’t want to play with me.”

Ma’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes watered over. “Someone said that to you?”

“Yeah. Can I change my name, so I can make friends?”

That’s all I wanted.

I wanted the kids at school to like me. We’d only lived in Chester for a few months now, and I hadn’t made any new friends. Dad told me to give it time, but the more time I gave it, the more people told me why I couldn’t hang out with them. Tim Reeves was having a birthday party and invited everyone in our class except me because I was the weird new kid.

I just wanted to go to a party.

“Jackson, honey, your name is perfect. Anyone who tells you they don’t want to be your friend because of your name isn’t the type of people you want to be friends with, okay?”

“I’ll be friends with anyone,” I promised her. “Maybe if my name was Eric or something.”

Ma frowned. “Come on, love. We’re going to go have an art lesson.”

I groaned. I didn’t want to do art. Whenever there was a problem, Ma always used art to try to fix it—to teach me. I didn’t want to learn, though.

I just wanted friends.

“But Ma—” I started, yet she gave me a stern look.

“Jackson Paul,” she scolded, using my middle name. I stopped talking because whenever Ma used my middle name, I knew she wasn’t going to let me slide.

She gathered some things from the house.

Paints, paintbrushes, a white bedsheet, two long sticks, wire, and clothespins.