Ugh — sorry, just surfacing. Had the worst drive up from work last night, fog so thick past the point I nearly put the car into the ditch by the lighthouse turnoff. Didn't even see the guardrail was gone till headlights caught it maybe four feet out. Sat there for a minute just breathing. Didn't tell Steph, she'd never let me take that road again. What's going on with you.
Don't apologize. I was out cold, honestly. Woke up with that same headache, like the house decided to spin. Anyway, you idiot, you're driving the back road now? I told you that guardrail is a joke. It's been gone since the storm in March, probably worse now. Did you at least check the tires after that scare? My shift at the plant is dragging, nothing but grease and bad coffee, but I'm too tired to care. You should've called someone. Steph's right to worry, even if she's annoying about it.
Didn't check the tires, no — got home, poured a whiskey, sat in the dark for twenty minutes like an idiot. Figured I'd deal with it in daylight. And don't start on Steph being right, she's insufferable when she's right, gloats for a week. March storm, huh — that tracks, county never fixes anything out there unless someone dies first. Grease and bad coffee sounds about right for you though. You sound wrecked. Go back to sleep, I'll survive the guardrail thing.
You're stubborn, I'll give you that. Probably why you're still breathing. Don't think Steph gloating is the worst part; it's the look on her face when she says "I told you so" like it's a religious conversion. She needs to get out of that house more. Anyway, I'm not going back to sleep, the plant's already buzzing with gossip about the foreman's kid getting caught with drugs again. Typical. You drink too much whiskey when you're scared, though. That's not survival, that's just numbing. Come over later, I've got decent coffee, not that sludge they serve here.
Numbing, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night — worked fine for me last night. And I'm not coming over just so you can lecture me over "decent coffee" that's probably still burnt. The foreman's kid, again? Christ, that family's a disaster on repeat. Steph does need to get out more, you're right, but try telling her that without her bringing up the time I "abandoned" her at her sister's wedding for twenty minutes to smoke.
Twenty minutes? You called that abandoning? You were just a coward who couldn't handle the wedding heat. She never lets that go, does she? Typical. And my coffee isn't burnt, it's just strong, unlike whatever watered-down swill you're drinking to forget the guardrail. Yeah, the foreman's kid is a mess, but at least he has a safety net. Your safety net is a whiskey bottle and a shaky steering wheel. Don't pretend you're fine, Marc. You're not. And stop deflecting.
I'm not deflecting, I'm just not interested in turning a fog patch into a therapy session. I'm fine. Tired, annoyed at the county, annoyed you're psychoanalyzing me at whatever hour this is — but fine. Wedding heat, Christ, it was ninety-four degrees in that tent, anyone would've stepped out. She married a guy who insisted on outdoor seating in July, that's the real crime. Bring the coffee here if you're so worried, save me the drive.
Bring the coffee here? You're impossible. I'm not your waiter. And ninety-four degrees in July is exactly why you needed to sit in the shade, not wander off to get smoked out. Now you want me to drive all the way to your place with a pot of hot coffee while my shift is halfway done and the line foreman is already breathing down my neck? The sooner I get out of here, the better. Just drive the new road tomorrow, yeah? Don't make me come drag you to the shop myself to get your tires checked.
Fine, fine — new road tomorrow, tires get looked at, I'll even let the shop guy talk my ear off about alignment for twenty minutes like he always does. You go deal with your foreman before he actually breathes fire. And don't threaten me with dragging me anywhere, last time you tried that you pulled a muscle and blamed me for a week.
I didn't blame you for the muscle pull, I just reminded you that you're clumsy. But yeah, forget dragging you out, my back still aches from that. Just get the tires checked, okay? I'm heading out now anyway, foreman's got the coffee machine fixed finally, so it's actually drinkable. Don't go anywhere near that lighthouse road until you do. And if Steph asks, I told you to get it done, not that I was babysitting you.
Deal — tires tomorrow, lighthouse road stays off limits till then. And I'll tell Steph you were "concerned," not babysitting, she'll see through it either way but I'll say it with a straight face. Go deal with your foreman and his miracle coffee machine. Talk later.
Good. Don't lie to her, she'll smell it. Just get the tires done and stop drinking whiskey at 6 AM. I'm out.
Wasn't drinking whiskey at 6 AM, that was last night — get your timeline straight before you head into a shift full of gossip. Go. Tires tomorrow, promise.
Right, sorry, my brain is still in the dark. Last night, 6 AM... same thing when you're running on fumes. Just go to sleep, Marc. Tires tomorrow. That's all that matters.
Yeah, alright. Go drink your miracle coffee before that foreman finds another reason to hover. Talk tomorrow.
Yeah, yeah. Don't give me a hard time about the timeline; I'm the one who forgot the guardrail was gone. Just get some sleep. Talk tomorrow.
Deal. Try not to burn your tongue on that coffee. Night — or morning, whatever this is for you.
You're right, it is morning somewhere. I'll try not to burn my tongue. See you when I see you.
See you, Nate. Watch that foreman.
Forget it, Marc. It's Steve, and he's already on my case. Not Nate, for God's sake, we've been over this. And I'm not Nate. Go to sleep. I'm not in the mood to correct your brain fog again, especially not before my coffee even kicks in.
Steve, right, sorry — told you my head's still somewhere on that dark road. Not fully awake over here either apparently. Go get your coffee before Steve finds something else to breathe down your neck about. Talk later, for real this time.
Finally got that straight. Yeah, Steve's already got a list of things to yell about, mostly how I'm standing here arguing with you instead of fixing the conveyor belt. Go sleep, Marc. Don't drive that car until you're sure you're awake enough to see the tires. I'm hanging up now, coffee's waiting.
Go fix the belt before Steve blows a gasket. I'll wait on the car. Later.
Good. Don't wait on anything but sleep. I'm already moving, belt's jammed again, Steve's screaming about the shift metrics. You just make sure that car stays in the garage. Later.