Locked Heart 6

Noahs Pov -

The wrench slips in my oil-slicked hand, and my knuckles scrape against the undercarriage of the Honda suspended above me. I don’t flinch. Pain’s become such a constant companion over the years that a little scraped skin barely registers anymore.

“Shit,” I mutter, wiping my hand on the already-stained rag tucked into my belt loop before repositioning the wrench around the stubborn bolt. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz with their perpetual hum, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. It’s just past two in the afternoon on a Thursday, and the San Diego heat has turned the workshop into a sweltering metal box despite the industrial fans rotating lazily in the corners.

I give the wrench another hard turn, feeling the bolt finally give way with a satisfying crack. The sound echoes through the mostly empty garage—Peter has the other guys out on test drives with potential buyers, leaving me alone with the vehicles that actually need work. I prefer it this way. Alone. Focused. No small talk, no questions about my weekend plans, no pitying looks when someone mentions my daughter or my sister.

I roll out from under the Honda on the creeper, its wheels squeaking against the oil-stained concrete, and sit up, running my forearm across my forehead. Sweat’s plastered my dark brown hair to my temples, and my gray t-shirt clings to my chest and shoulders. At twenty-five, I look older than my years—I know this because I see it every time I catch my reflection. The permanent shadows under my hazel eyes, the lines around my mouth that shouldn’t be there yet, the hardness to my jaw that comes from too many nights spent clenching my teeth against memories I can’t escape.

The smell of motor oil, gasoline, and hot metal fills my nostrils—scents that have become as familiar as breathing. This garage, this work, is the only place where my mind can sometimes find peace. When my hands are busy, when I’m solving mechanical problems with clear solutions, I can almost forget everything else.

Almost.

I push myself to my feet, my knees protesting slightly—another reminder that my body’s been through more than most people my age. I walk over to the workbench, littered with tools in various states of organization, and grab a socket wrench, my mind already calculating the next steps for the Honda. But as my fingers close around the cool metal, my thoughts drift, as they always do when the work becomes routine enough that my brain has space to wander.

Don’t go there, I tell myself, but it’s too late. The memories are already surfacing, bubbling up like oil through water.

I’m Eleven years old again, small for my age, standing in the narrow hallway of our cramped apartment in the shitty part of San Diego where the sirens never stopped and the neighbors pretended not to hear anything. My father—if I can even call him that—looms over my mother, one meaty fist raised, his face purple with rage over something insignificant. Dinner was cold. She talked back. She looked at him wrong. The reasons changed, but the outcome was always the same.

“Dad, stop!” I throw myself between them, my small body a pathetic shield, and feel the backhand across my face that sends me sprawling into the wall. Stars explode behind my eyes, and I taste blood, but I scramble back up, putting myself between them again.

My mother screams at me to stop, to go to my room, but even then, I understand something fundamental: if he’s hitting me, he’s not hitting her. If I can take the brunt of it, maybe she’ll be okay. Maybe my baby sister Jade, sleeping in her crib in the next room, will be safe.

The beatings become routine. His fists, his belt, whatever’s within reach when the rage takes over. I learn to read the signs—the particular set of his shoulders, the way his voice drops to that dangerous quiet, the smell of whiskey that means things will be worse than usual. I learn to position myself, to take the hits in places that won’t show as much at school, to stay quiet so it’ll end faster.

I learn to hate.

My hand tightens around the socket wrench until my knuckles go white. I force myself to breathe, to come back to the present, to the garage where I’m safe, where I’m in control. But the memories have their hooks in me now, and they’re not letting go.

By the time I’m sixteen, I’ve grown tall enough, strong enough, that he has to think twice before coming at me. But by then, the damage is done—not just the physical scars that still mark my ribs and back, but the deeper wounds that never quite heal. I’ve learned that love means pain, that family means survival, that trust is a luxury I can’t afford.

I stay as long as I can, taking the hits, protecting my mother and Jade as best I can. But when I turn eighteen, when the acceptance letter from San Diego City College arrives with its promise of automotive technology courses and a future that doesn’t involve his fists, I make the hardest decision of my life.

I leave.

The guilt of that decision still eats at me, even now, seven years later. I pack a duffel bag in the middle of the night, leave a note for my mother that I can barely see through my tears, and walk out of that apartment knowing I’m abandoning them. Knowing that every hit he lands after that is one I’m not there to take instead.

I had to, I tell myself for the thousandth time, the same justification I’ve been repeating like a mantra for years. I had to get out. I had to build something. I couldn’t save them if I was drowning too.

But the guilt never listens to logic.

I move back to the Honda, sliding underneath it again, letting the familiar position ground me. The undercarriage is a mess—the previous owner clearly ignored every maintenance light and warning sign until the car was practically held together with hope and duct tape. I’ll need to replace the oil pan, the transmission’s leaking, and I suspect the catalytic converter’s on its last legs.

I understand broken things. I’m good at fixing them.

If only people were as straightforward as engines.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I roll out again to check it, my heart doing that automatic skip it always does when I see a notification—the perpetual fear that something’s happened to Lily or Jade. But it’s just Colin, his text appearing on the cracked screen: Dude, Peter and I found you the PERFECT girl. Drinks tonight? She’s a friend of a friend, super chill, loves kids.

My jaw clenches. I type back with oil-stained fingers: No.

Three dots appear immediately. Come on man, you can’t hide forever.

Watch me, I reply, then silence my phone and shove it back in my pocket.

Peter and Colin mean well. They’ve been my closest friends for years—Colin since we were both fifteen, bonding over shared cigarettes behind the school and a mutual hatred of our home lives. Peter since I was nineteen, when Peter’s father still owned the dealership and gave both Colin and me jobs despite our lack of experience, seeing something in us worth investing in.

When Peter’s father passed three years ago and left the business to his son, Peter kept us on, even promoted me to lead mechanic. They’re more than friends; they’re brothers in all the ways that matter. Which means they’ve seen me at my worst, and they refuse to let me give up on the idea of happiness, even when I’ve long since accepted that happiness isn’t in the cards for me.

They’ve been pushing me to date for the past year, ever since Jade settled in and Lily started kindergarten. “You’re twenty-five, not dead,” Peter says. “You deserve someone, man. You deserve to be happy.”

But they don’t understand. They can’t.

I tried dating, briefly, when Lily was three. I thought maybe enough time had passed, maybe I could trust again, maybe I could build something normal for my daughter—give her a complete family, a mother figure, the kind of stability I never had.

The first woman seemed nice enough. We met at a coffee shop, talked for hours, and she laughed at my jokes and seemed genuinely interested in my life. But when I mentioned Lily, her smile faltered. “Oh, you have a kid?” she said, as if I’d just confessed to a crime. The date ended shortly after, and she never returned my texts.

The second woman made it to meeting Lily. She was all smiles and enthusiasm, bringing a stuffed animal for my daughter, playing with her in the park. I let myself hope, just a little. But then she started hinting about moving in together, about how expensive childcare was, about how my job at the dealership probably paid pretty well. It took me three more dates to realize she wasn’t interested in me—she was interested in financial security and a ready-made family without having to do the work of pregnancy and infancy.

The third woman was the worst. She seemed perfect—patient with Lily, understanding about my baggage, supportive of my custody battle for Jade. But six weeks in, she sat me down and explained that while she liked me, she couldn’t “deal with all this drama.” The single father thing was “too much,” and she needed someone who could focus on her, not someone who was “basically raising two kids alone.”

After that, I stopped trying. What’s the point? Every woman either wants nothing to do with my responsibilities or wants to use me for stability. None of them actually want me—the broken, damaged, barely-holding-it-together version of myself that’s all I have to offer.

And honestly? I don’t blame them. I’m a shit deal. A twenty-five-year-old single father with a teenage sister to raise, a dead-end job that barely pays the bills, and enough emotional baggage to fill a cargo ship. What do I have to offer anyone?

More than that, though—and this is the part I don’t like to admit even to myself—I don’t trust women anymore. Not after her.

My hands still on the wrench, my breath catching in my chest as the memory I’ve been trying to avoid all day finally crashes over me.

I’m twenty years old, working double shifts at a shitty fast-food joint while taking classes at community college, barely scraping by but determined to build something better. And then I meet her—Lily’s mother, though I can’t even bring myself to think her name anymore.

She’s beautiful, charming, everything I think I want. She seems to understand me, to see past the rough edges and the trauma to something worth loving. When she gets pregnant, I’m terrified but also, secretly, hopeful. Maybe this is my chance to build the family I never had. Maybe I can be the father mine never was.

We move in together, a tiny apartment that I can barely afford, but it’s ours. And when Lily is born—God, when I hold my daughter for the first time, her tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb, her eyes looking up at me with complete trust—I make a promise. I will protect her. I will be better. I will never, ever let anyone hurt her the way I was hurt.

For a year, I try. I work myself to exhaustion, taking every shift I can get, coming home to help with Lily, trying to be present, trying to be enough. But it’s never enough. She grows distant, resentful, complaining that I’m never home, that we never have money, that this isn’t the life she signed up for.

And then, one day, I come home early from a shift that got canceled. I’m looking forward to surprising them, to actually spending an afternoon with my daughter.

The apartment door is unlocked. I hear sounds from the bedroom—sounds that make my blood run cold. And when I open that door, when I see her in our bed with another man, my daughter sleeping in her crib not ten feet away, something inside me shatters so completely that I’m not sure all the pieces will ever fit back together.

The fight that follows is ugly. She screams that it’s my fault, that I’m never there, that she’s lonely, that she made a mistake getting pregnant, that she never wanted this life. The man flees, pulling on his clothes and practically running out the door. And I stand there, shaking with rage and heartbreak, looking at this woman I thought I loved, this woman who’s supposed to be my partner, my family.

“Get out,” I say, my voice deadly quiet. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

She leaves that night, taking only her clothes. And she never comes back. No calls, no texts, no attempts to see Lily. She signs away her parental rights without a fight, as if our daughter is just another mistake she’s eager to erase.

I’m left alone with a one-year-old, a broken heart, and a hatred for women that burns in my chest like acid.

“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing I’ve been gripping the wrench so hard my hand is cramping. I force myself to relax, to breathe, to focus on the work in front of me.

That was four years ago. Four years of raising Lily alone, of learning to braid hair from YouTube videos, of parent-teacher conferences and doctor’s appointments and bedtime stories. Four years of watching my daughter grow into a smart, funny, beautiful little girl who deserves so much better than what I can give her.

Four years of being terrified every single day that I’m fucking it up, that I’m not enough, that she’ll grow up damaged like me.

But at least she’s safe. At least she’s loved. At least she’ll never have to wonder if her father will come home drunk and angry, fists ready.

That’s something.

My phone buzzes again, and this time when I check it, my expression softens slightly. A text from Jade: Can I go to Emma’s house after school? Her mom said she’d drive me home by 7.

I type back: Sure. Text me when you get there and when you leave. And do your homework first.

The response is immediate: UGH fine. Thanks Noah. Love you.

Love you too, kid.

Jade. God, Jade. If Lily is my heart, Jade is my redemption—my chance to make up for leaving, for not being there when she needed me most.

My mother died when I was twenty, just a few months before I found my ex cheating. Cancer, aggressive and cruel, that she hid from everyone until it was too late. She didn’t want to burden anyone, she said in the hospital at the end, her body wasted away to nothing, her eyes apologetic even as she was dying.

I held her hand and lied, telling her everything would be okay, that Jade would be fine, that our father would take care of her. But we both knew the truth.

After the funeral, I tried to stay in touch with Jade, calling her every week, visiting when I could. But our father made it difficult, screening calls, making excuses. And then he remarried within six months—a woman named Patricia who was just as cruel as he was, just in different ways.

Where our father used his fists, Patricia used words. She’d belittle Jade constantly, criticizing everything from her grades to her appearance to her friends. She’d make her do all the housework while treating the apartment like a hotel. She’d “forget” to buy groceries, leaving Jade to fend for herself for meals. And our father, when he wasn’t drunk or high, would just watch, letting it happen, sometimes joining in.

I tried to intervene, but what could I do? I was barely keeping my own head above water with a toddler to raise. And every time I asked Jade if she was okay, she’d say yes, everything was fine, don’t worry about her.

I believed her because I wanted to. Because the alternative—that my baby sister was suffering and I was doing nothing—was too painful to accept.

It wasn’t until Jade was thirteen, when I was twenty-three, that I got the call that changed everything. Jade, sobbing so hard she could barely speak, calling from a friend’s phone because our father had taken hers away. She finally broke, finally told me everything—the verbal abuse, the neglect, the fact that our father and Patricia were using drugs in the house, that she was scared, that she needed help.

I drove to that house that night, pounded on the door until my father answered, and told him I was taking Jade. The fight that followed nearly ended with the police being called, but I didn’t care. I packed Jade’s things while she cried in my car, and I brought her home.

The custody battle that followed was hell. My father and Patricia put on a good show for the social workers, playing the concerned parents, making me look like the unstable one—the single father barely making ends meet, trying to take on a teenager when I could barely handle my own kid. They threatened Jade, told her that if she said anything bad about them, they’d make sure she never saw me again.

For months, I was terrified I’d lose. That the system would send Jade back to that house, back to those people, and there’d be nothing I could do about it.

But then the evidence came through—drug paraphernalia found during a home inspection, neighbors willing to testify about the screaming and neglect, Jade’s school counselor documenting the changes in her behavior and appearance. The judge ruled in my favor, granting me full custody, and I walked out of that courtroom with my sister’s hand in mine, feeling like I could finally breathe for the first time in years.

That was two years ago. Jade is fourteen now, living with me and Lily in our small three-bedroom house that I can barely afford but refuse to give up because it means my girls have their own rooms, their own space, their own safety.

She’s doing better. Therapy helps. Being away from that toxic environment helps. Having a brother who actually gives a shit about her helps. But I can still see the damage, the way she flinches sometimes when I raise my voice even slightly, the way she apologizes constantly for things that aren’t her fault, the way she hoards food in her room because some part of her still doesn’t trust that there will always be enough.

I’m trying. God, I’m trying so hard. But some days, I feel like I’m drowning, like I’m one bad day away from everything falling apart.

I finish with the Honda’s undercarriage and roll out, standing and stretching my back with a wince. My body aches—it always does these days. Twenty-five years old and I feel fifty.

I glance at the clock on the wall. 4:30 PM. Another hour and a half before I can leave, pick up Lily from after-school care, go home, make dinner, help Jade with homework, give Lily a bath, read her a story, tuck her in, make sure Jade is settled, and then—finally—pour myself a drink.

Or three.

Or however many it takes to quiet the noise in my head.

I’m not proud of it, the drinking. I know it’s a problem, know it’s the same coping mechanism my father used, know I’m playing with fire. But it’s the only thing that works, the only thing that lets me sleep without the nightmares, without the constant replay of every mistake, every failure, every moment I wasn’t enough.

I’m careful about it. I never drink before the girls are asleep. I never drink enough to be hungover in the morning. I never let it interfere with my responsibilities. I tell myself that makes it okay, that I have it under control.

But late at night, sitting alone in my kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and the weight of the world on my shoulders, I know the truth: I’m barely holding on. I’m one crisis away from falling apart completely. And the only thing keeping me going is the knowledge that two people depend on me, that I can’t afford to break because they need me to be strong.

So I’ll keep going. I’ll keep working, keep providing, keep protecting. I’ll keep my walls up and my heart locked down because letting anyone in means risking the kind of pain I’ve already endured too much of.

I’ll keep surviving, even if I’ve given up on actually living.

The sound of the garage door opening pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see Peter walking in, his tall frame silhouetted against the late afternoon sun. He’s grinning, which usually means trouble.

“Don’t even start,” I say before he can open his mouth.

“I didn’t say anything!” Peter protests, but his grin widens. He’s twenty-nine, four years older than me, with an easy confidence that comes from growing up with money and stability—things I’ve never known. But despite our different backgrounds, Peter’s never treated me as anything less than an equal. He gave Colin and me jobs when we were nineteen and desperate, promoted me based on skill rather than favoritism, and became one of the few people I actually trust.

“You’re thinking it, though,” I say, turning back to my workbench and organizing my tools with more focus than necessary.

“Okay, fine, yes, I’m thinking it,” Peter admits, leaning against the workbench. “Colin and I found you a great girl, Noah. She’s perfect—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“Don’t need to,” I say, not looking up from the socket set I’m organizing. “The answer is no. It’s always no. Stop trying.”

Peter sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Man, you can’t keep doing this. You’re twenty-five years old. You’re a good guy, a great father, you’ve got your shit together—”

“Do I?” I interrupt, finally looking up, my eyes hard. “Do I really have my shit together, Peter? Because from where I’m standing, I’m a twenty-five-year-old single father working a dead-end job, raising my teenage sister because our parents were garbage, drinking myself to sleep every night, and barely keeping my head above water. That sound like someone who has his shit together to you?”

Peter’s expression softens. “Noah—”

“I appreciate what you and Colin are trying to do,” I say, my voice quieter now, tired. “I do. But I’m not interested. I don’t have time for dating, I don’t have energy for it, and honestly? I don’t trust women anymore. Every single one I’ve met either wants nothing to do with my life or wants to use me for something. So why bother?”

“Because you deserve to be happy,” Peter says simply. “Because Lily and Jade deserve to see you happy. Because you’re more than just a provider, Noah. You’re allowed to want things for yourself.”

I turn away, my jaw clenched. “I want to finish this Honda and go home to my kids. That’s what I want.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Alright, man. I’ll back off. But the offer stands, whenever you’re ready. Colin and I, we just want to see you smile once in a while, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “I know.”

Peter claps me on the shoulder and heads back toward the office, leaving me alone in the garage again. The silence settles back over me like a familiar blanket, heavy and suffocating.

I look down at my oil-stained hands, at the scars on my knuckles from years of work and fights and accidents. These hands held my daughter when she was born, signed custody papers for my sister, gripped wrenches and steering wheels and whiskey bottles.

These hands built a life from nothing, protected the people I love, survived when survival seemed impossible.

But they’ve never held someone who loved me back, not really. They’ve never known the gentle touch of a partner who stayed, who chose me, who saw all my broken pieces and wanted me anyway.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s not in the cards for me. Maybe some people are meant to be alone, meant to be the protector rather than the protected, meant to give rather than receive.

Maybe I can live with that.

I have to live with that.

I spend the last hour of my shift finishing up the Honda and starting on a brake job for a Toyota that came in this morning. The work is meditative, requiring just enough focus that my mind can’t wander too far into dangerous territory. By the time 6 PM rolls around, my back is screaming and my hands are cramping, but the cars are in better shape than when I started.

I clean up my station, wash my hands in the industrial sink until the water runs clear, and grab my keys from my locker. The drive to Lily’s after-school care is only ten minutes, but traffic in San Diego is always unpredictable, and I hate being late.

As I climb into my truck—a 2008 Ford F-150 that I rebuilt myself from a salvage yard find—I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I look exhausted, older than twenty-five, with shadows under my eyes and grease still smudged on my jaw despite washing up.

This is your life, I think, starting the engine. This is all it’s ever going to be.

And as I pull out of the parking lot, heading toward my daughter and the evening routine that awaits me, I do what I do best: I push down the loneliness, lock away the pain, and focus on surviving one more day.

Because that’s what I do. That’s all I know how to do.

Survive.

Even if I’ve forgotten how to live.