Chapter 8

Daily reminder to stay hydrated and not give a fuck what other people think.

-Cora’s to do list

Cora

I laid in bed that night, tossing and turning, wondering what was wrong with me.

I could hear the incubators running in my bathroom where Coke and I had set them up, but that wasn’t what was keeping me awake.

It was the sound of the occasional dropped tool and the low thrum of music.

I knew he was trying to stay quiet, really, I did, but at this point, it wasn’t the noise he was making. It was him.

Knowing he was out there was killing me. I wanted to be out there, too.

We’d spent a day together, but I knew I would remember the day for the rest of my life.

Starting from the moment he’d called me this morning, I’d been happy.

And I couldn’t remember the last time that’d happened in quite a while.

When I was younger, I was diagnosed with cyclothymic disorder. It is a rarer yet milder form of bipolar disorder. The symptoms are similar but more treatable through therapy.

I often got depressed for no good reason, and other times I was so freakin’ happy that I felt on top of the world. I had horrible impulse control, and not a day went by that I didn’t think about harming myself in some way.

I’d fought my instincts a lot as a kid, and after I shared with my mother and father that sometimes I hated myself, they decided to get me checked out.

Which was when I was diagnosed with a mild mental disorder.

Honestly, it made sense.

My family never knew why I didn’t want to be around other kids my age. And they never could figure out why I was such a depressed child. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, made me happy. That was until the day that my therapist gave me pencils and paper and told me to draw her a picture.

From that day forward, I’d learned how to express myself through my drawings. I’d found an outlet for my depressive symptoms.

I’d also found my calling in life.

From that point, my family knew exactly how I was feeling based on my drawings.

Which was why I sometimes drew Janie comics to let her know that she hurt my feelings—because it was easier to do that rather than actually talking to her.

Handing it to her and walking away was much more satisfying than telling her I didn’t want to be included in whatever games they were playing.

Janie had never been cruel. Neither had Kayla. Honestly, they’d just been kids, and I think that they were hurt that I wouldn’t really have anything to do with them.

Them trying to include me in their friendship had bothered me because I really was a loner. I liked to be left alone. And though we did consider each other friends, I was never as close with them as they were with each other.

But whew, boy. Though I might not like hanging out with them, I was considered theirs, and hell hath no fury like two girls that were protective of me.

There’d been one time that a little boy at school had cornered me and had asked me to be his date to the middle school dance. I’d wanted nothing more than to get away and had been trying to accomplish that when Janie and Kayla had found me there, scared to death.

They’d lost their shit on the poor kid, and he’d never looked at me twice again.

Another tool dropped, making me smile.

Today was a really good day, and I felt calmer and happier than I’d felt in a really long time.

And I wanted to be near him some more…

Throwing the covers off of me, I walked to my closet and contemplated slipping something different on, but in the end, I decided to go with my tall neoprene boots and keep the pajamas on that I was wearing.

He’d probably think that I was silly, but I wanted him to know the real me.

The things that made me happy.

In order to do that, to show him the real me, I decided to let him see exactly what I was.

A dork.

Walking to the front door, I disarmed the panel and reached for my raincoat.

It’d been raining constantly since we’d gotten to his place a little earlier in the evening.

By the sound of the rain outside, I had a feeling that he was convinced that I wouldn’t hear anything through the beat of the constant downpour.

But he underestimated me and my hearing.

Not that I cared that he was out there—at least not anymore.

I’d felt terrible for telling him to stop working on his truck awhile back, and now, after spending the day with him, I knew that he was a good guy.

He honestly didn’t know that he had been keeping me awake when he was working, and I highly doubted that he’d ever do it again if he knew that I was sleeping or about to go to sleep.

After zipping the coat up, I shuffled carefully across my driveway, and into the woods that separated my property from his.

Once I’d breached the trees that lined the back of his shop, I poked my head around the corner and stared.

He was in much the same position as he was the first time I’d seen him in there.

Bent with both hands resting on the edges of the fenders—this time the vehicle was a Chevy Impala—his head bowed. He was studying the contents of the engine, staring at it like it would talk to him in some way.

He was wearing dirty blue jeans, a black t-shirt that fit him like a glove, and his work boots.

The same hat sat atop his head, but this time it was slightly askew, likely due to him bumping it on the hood that was raised and resting precariously close to his forehead.

I stepped farther into the shop and cleared my throat.

He looked up, blinked, and then grinned.

“You look like a murderer.”

I looked down at the long black raincoat. It was one of my father’s old ones, and it hung on me like a massive black trash bag would have.

The fluorescent stripes were faded, but the jacket still did what it was intended to do—repel water.

“I only have one rain jacket,” I murmured. “Do you mind if I keep you company for a little bit?”

He shook his head. “By all means. I was trying not to get worked up over a phone call I just had with my daughter. Working on my project car seemed better than tossing chairs into walls.”

I blinked. “What happened?”

He groaned and brought his dirty hands up to his face, seconds away from rubbing his eyes in frustration.

He caught himself before he could smear the grease all over his face.

I stepped forward, unbuttoning the coat as I did.

Once I had it all the way undone, I shrugged it off and laid it over a jack handle that was sticking up in the corner of the room.

When I turned back around, he was staring at me.

“You’re wearing a unicorn onesie,” he murmured, his mouth kicking up at the corners. “Why do I find that cute?”

I shrugged.

He chuckled, then sighed as if he’d remembered what he’d been about to tell me when I’d distracted him.

“My daughter hadn’t called me in a week, and so I called her myself when I got home earlier.” He turned to lean against the Impala, his arms crossing tightly over his chest, and his feet stretched slightly out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. “She sounded like she was sick. When I asked her if she was okay, she broke down and told me that everyone there was mean to her, and she was having trouble integrating. That she wanted to come home, but the only reason she was still there and not here was because her mom would give her shit about quitting.”

I was suddenly furious.

She disliked her mother so much that she’d be willing to stay in a shitty situation because she didn’t want to hear her mother say ‘I told you so?’

I straightened to my full height.

“You need to go see her.” I paused. “I’ll go see her.”

His mouth twitched at one corner. “I’d already decided to do that tomorrow. It’s about a four-hour drive there and then back. If I take off at lunchtime, I can go eat an early dinner with her, get the lay of the land, and then head back…but I’m not sure if that’s going to be enough. She doesn’t want to leave, wants to make it work, and I know that. But I hate the idea of her being there when she’s being treated so poorly.”

I pursed my lips and brought one finger up to tap against my upper lip.

“Is she in a dorm?”

He nodded.

“Is it her roommate?” I pushed.

He shrugged. “She didn’t complain about a roommate, but that could be why. I don’t know. I’ll find out what I can tomorrow.”

I smiled at him. “Also ask if she’s having trouble with the classes. That was a shocker for me, going from high school where I could skate by, to a college curriculum where I could not. It was a tough realization for me that it was actually going to take effort on my part to make it through. But once I accepted that I actually had to put some effort into it, I enjoyed it a lot more.”

He flashed me a grin. “Maybe I will take you with me…”

***

I was meeting Coke’s daughter.

How had I gotten myself into this?

I’d been silent for most of the two-hour drive, and that was because I wasn’t sure why I’d invited myself to go with him. I was second-guessing myself, and I wasn’t sure why.

I knew, better than most, what it felt like when people didn’t get me.

I’d said that to him last night, spur of the moment, because I’d hated the idea that someone that was special to Coke was going through something like I’d gone through.

I didn’t want anyone to have to experience that, so I was intent on making sure that she knew it was okay to be different.

Which was how I’d talked myself into going to this place with him, so his daughter didn’t ever feel like I’d felt. Nobody should be made to feel unwelcome.

“Cora?”

I looked over at him.

“Yeah?”

“That drawing you made me.”

I waited, knowing he wasn’t finished.

“I liked it.”

I grinned. “Normally I only hand out drawings to people that piss me off,” I admitted. “But, in your case, I felt like you needed a pick me up. Having to deal with that vile woman…I feel awful for you.”

He grunted. “I dug my own grave, darlin’,” he teased. “Tell me more about these drawings. Do you sell them?”

I smiled. “Somewhat. Not those particular drawings—the comics. I’ve never been able to get into that market. However, I do draw a lot—and have been selling some of my other drawings since I was a young girl. I’ve done a few book covers, and now I’m actually working for a production company that does animation for children’s animated movies.”

He looked over at me, eyebrows raised. “You draw characters like Nemo and that Moana dude?”

“Moana was the girl,” I teased. “But yes, that’s what I do. We’re working on an animated movie now about bugs. I’m currently in charge of a side character that doesn’t see much screen time, but even still, I have to draw out a whole lot more than you think I do. A lot of this is digitalized, but the initial concepts aren’t. So, I get to do a little bit of what I love to do.”

He hummed. “Sounds like you have your dream job.”

I shrugged. “My dream job is to draw what I want, not what I’m told. However, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Janie mentioned something about only getting comics when you’re pissed at her…”

I felt my belly shiver as a flutter of nerves started to float around in my peripheral being.

“I…it’s how I express myself.” I paused. “I’m not really a people person. I don’t like confrontation. It’s easier for me to draw something, a comic or a picture, and have the characters say what I mean.”

He made an agreeing sound. “Not everyone enjoys confrontation.”

That was true.

But, there was more to my problem than that.

I hesitated, on the verge of sharing, and then he patted my hand that was resting on my knee.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he promised.

I licked my lips and watched as he took his hand away and rested it on the center console between us.

Holy shit, I wanted nothing more than to have his hand back on my hand, curling those long fingers around mine tightly.

But…I needed to explain about me.

I needed him to know what was wrong with me, and that sometimes I wasn’t like normal people.

“I’m not normal, though,” I started, keeping my eyes straight ahead, studying the traffic so I wouldn’t have to see the thoughts and feelings cross his face. “I have what is considered a disorder, I guess.”

He waited, not saying anything, so I took that as a positive sign to continue.

“Technically, it’s called cyclothymic disorder.”

He grunted. “Cyclothymic disorder?”

I nodded my head.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

Then I explained a little about what cyclothymic disorder was. “Pretty much it’s a medical disorder that involves unstable moods, behavior, and sometimes relationships.”

I took the chance and looked over at him, but he didn’t look put off by the subject we were discussing. Intrigued, more like it.

He grunted. “So, you’re saying you could’ve just as easily flipped out the night I kept starting that truck instead of being nice about it?”

I laughed. “Yeah. Kind of. Anger isn’t really one of my problems, though it can be if certain things are involved.” I gave him a small smile. “I was more likely to cry on you than to yell.”

“Like what types of things?” he asked.

“Well, my family. People that I love. If they piss me off—or I feel like they pissed me off—they’re going to get it. I have less of a problem sharing my feelings with people that I know will understand if I get too over the top.” I paused. “They’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with my problems. As for me…I’m still trying to come to terms with them.” I paused. “That’s why Janie gets the comics. I love her to death, but damn does her constant need to include me in her shit drive me insane.”

He chuckled. “What else comes with having this disorder?”

I thought about that for a moment, trying to find something that wouldn’t scare him away.

“I overanalyze everything. A text message? Where most people would reply to a text instantly without thought, I take extra time analyzing what they were really trying to convey. It may take me two hours to respond, if I even respond at all.”

He blinked. “Hmmm. What else?”

Continuing, I went about telling him my other problems.

“So, you take naps because they keep you sane and less bitchy. You draw people comics instead of talking to them when you’re pissed. And, you don’t make friends or even trust easily?” he summarized. “Oh, and when you get into one of those depressive moods, it only lasts for a couple of hours.”

I nodded. “Essentially.”

I mean, there were other things that I had symptom-wise, but really, I didn’t want to scare him away by telling him that I’d briefly contemplated suicide before.

That was always a downer.

“Honey,” Coke said gently. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to get offended.”

I raised a brow at him and waited for him to enlighten me on what he thought would be offensive to me.

He didn’t disappoint me.

“You just described every single woman in the world. Sure, you may express yourself differently, but every woman is moody. I raised a teenager, remember?” He winked at my smile. “And I hate to tell you this, but I’d take what you just described to me any day, and nine times on Sunday, over having to deal with my ex-wife’s shit. Trust me when I say, your crazy pales in comparison to her crazy.”

I giggled.

“My daughter was trying to decide what to text a guy. I overheard her having this conversation over the phone, so don’t think I’m weird.” He gave me a look that clearly said I might think he was weird anyway despite him telling me not to think so. “She was going on and on about what she should say. The guy said ‘hey.’ They were trying to figure out whether to say ‘hello, how are you’ or if that was too formal. They went on and on about it for like twenty minutes before I’d had enough of it and just told her to text him ‘hey’ back. Then I had to explain to her that guys were simple creatures. He was just reaching out to talk and that was his opener. If she replied with the hey, he’d carry the conversation in the direction that he wanted it to go.”

I snickered. “It’s easier to call, honestly. Anyone besides my mom or dad texts me, that’s what’s going to happen. Even my brother…I have to call him. And it’s hard for me to come off as sincere sometimes because they overthink what I say, too. Wondering what kind of mood I’m really in.”

He groaned. “That sounds like a mess,” he admitted. “But your family sounds like they’re very open and willing to help. That’s more than I can say for some people.” He paused. “Had Frankie had this? My ex-wife would’ve lost her fuckin’ mind.”

I knew that. Most people couldn’t handle my mood swings, either.

I was lucky.

“The way my therapist explained it is that sometimes it comes on—and this is an educated guess on her part since there is no hard evidence of causes—is that I likely have it due to something that happened to me when I was a child. Long story short, my mother hid me from my father, and when my father found out about me, he fought for custody. My mother was a shitty person, and she left me in a car in the freezing cold for hours and hours…they think that might’ve been what caused me to have this problem. From what I understand, you didn’t do anything to your daughter, so likely she would’ve never had it, and your ex-wife wouldn’t have had to deal with it.”

Something went electric in the cab of his truck, and I looked over at him to see him frowning.

“What?”

He cleared his throat and started to speak what sounded like very carefully.

“I fucking hate that for you,” he growled. “I hate that someone would do that…but more, I hate it for your father. I hate that someone kept you from him. To think about missing any of my time with Frankie…that makes my blood boil. Hell, I had to fight to keep Frankie because my ex-wife didn’t want to even have her. If it wasn’t for her father, who refused to allow her to have the abortion unless she wanted to be disinherited, then she might have been.”

That sucked.

“Sounds like you owe your father-in-law a lot,” I admitted. “You should probably buy him a card on Father’s Day.”

He snorted. “I do. He’s a good father…makes me miss mine.”

“Your father is dead?”

He nodded. “Died in a plane crash during Desert Storm.”

I deflated on the seat next to him.

“That’s awful,” I whispered, wishing I hadn’t brought the subject up. It had to be a painful one.

Coke made an agreeing sound in the back of his throat. “Yes, it is awful. But…he died doing what he loved—protecting his boys and his country. He would’ve rather gone that way than any other.”

I could see that being true. If I had to go, I’d rather go doing something that I absolutely loved.

Though…the only thing I loved at this point that was even sort of dangerous was drawing—and it was only dangerous when I was drawing with a pencil that was sharpened on both ends.

“If you died doing what you loved, what would it be?” I questioned suddenly.

He was silent for a few long moments, and then he shrugged. “I can’t say that I have a single thing that I love doing that I’d be willing to die for. Now…if my daughter was in harm’s way? I’d march into hell doused in gasoline if it meant she’d be safe.”