Chapter 1: The Crash and the Blame Game

At our family’s New Year’s Eve get-together, my cousin drove drunk and plowed right into my car. And then he actually had the nerve to say I was blocking his way—and told me I should pay for the damages. Can you believe it?

Even as the laughter and fireworks from the house echoed across the frosty yard, I could barely believe his nerve. Only in my family, right? Only here could someone turn their own mess into my fault without missing a beat.

But my car was parked in a marked spot—I hadn’t even started the engine. Not once.

The lines were still clear as day under the parking lot lights, and I’d picked the spot hours ago, right next to the mailbox. My Honda sat exactly where it was supposed to, not so much as a tire over the line. Honestly, I was the poster child for responsible parking.

I was helping my wife with her seatbelt. About to turn the key. When—

She was fiddling with her scarf. I leaned over to help her click the buckle into place. The heater was just starting to hum. For a second, everything felt cozy—so normal you don't even notice it until it's gone.

Bang! Our car, still off, suddenly lurched forward. Slammed right into the parking lot fence.

The jolt was so violent my wife’s purse flew off her lap. Gum wrappers and a half-eaten granola bar spilled onto the floor mat. The sharp crunch of metal against metal echoed through the lot, and I felt my heart leap into my throat.

My wife and I both just about jumped out of our skins. No warning. No time to brace.

She gasped, clutching my arm. For a split second, neither of us moved. We were frozen there, the world outside lit up in red and green from holiday lights strung along the fence. It felt surreal, like time had stopped.

Didn’t take a genius. We’d been rear-ended.

I could smell the faint tang of antifreeze and burnt rubber, even before I moved. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what just happened, but my gut already knew: someone had slammed into us, and hard.

I unbuckled my seatbelt. Jumped out to see what happened.

The cold hit me like a slap as I stepped out. My breath clouded in the air. I scanned the lot, trying to piece together the chaos. My trunk was crumpled like a soda can. Headlights shattered. Behind me, a familiar silver BMW idled crookedly. Its hood was crumpled, steam hissing out.

But before I could even get my bearings, my cousin’s voice cut through the cold night air. My jaw clenched.

“Evan, what the hell kind of parking job is that? You’re blocking my way!”

He sounded more annoyed than apologetic. His words were slurred and too loud, carrying across the lot like he was performing for an audience. I could already feel the anger rising in my chest.

I looked up and saw my cousin, Matt, weaving as he stomped over. He jabbed his finger in my face. Repeated himself:

“Evan, what kind of parking job is that? You blocked my way, and now look what happened. You better call the insurance company and pay for this!”

Matt’s cheeks were flushed. He reeked of whiskey—cheap stuff, probably from the bar cart in the den. His finger hovered inches from my nose, veins standing out on his hand, white-knuckled with fake outrage.

I brushed his finger away, cold as ice. I could feel my blood pressure spike. Seriously?

I didn’t even bother to hide my disgust. “Back off, Matt.” My voice came out low and steady, but my hands were balled into fists. In my neighborhood, pointing in someone’s face is asking for a fight. If he wasn’t family, I might’ve taught him a lesson right then and there.

I could practically hear my dad’s voice in my head, warning me to keep my cool. Family or not, there’s a line you don’t cross, and Matt was practically doing the cha-cha over it.

Besides, my car hadn’t even moved—how could I have blocked his way? Matt was just being a jerk.

The logic was so backwards it was almost funny, if I wasn’t so pissed. I wasn’t even thinking about leaving. Matt was just looking for someone to blame—anyone but himself.

Our shouting brought the rest of the relatives over. One look and everyone knew what happened. The tension in the air was thick as gravy, and I could see the glint of porch lights reflecting off the busted metal. Aunt Linda, always the peacemaker, came hustling out in her Christmas slippers. Uncle Gary followed, arms crossed, and a couple of the younger cousins trailed behind, eyes wide. There was no hiding the mess: the wrecked cars, the busted fence, the whole disaster on display.

My car and Matt’s were parked facing each other—mine pulled in, his backed in. He’d already pulled out of his spot and smashed straight into my trunk, caving it in. His BMW’s front end was wrecked, too. I stared at the scene, my pulse pounding. How could anyone twist this around?

Glass glittered on the asphalt. The fence was bent, paint scraped off in a fresh wound. My Honda’s rear looked like it had been in a demolition derby. The scene? A disaster. Plain as day. Matt’s BMW, that overpriced status symbol, was steaming like a kettle.

Everyone could see who was at fault, but since Matt drove a BMW and I just had a Honda, none of the relatives wanted to stir the pot. After all, Matt’s the rich guy in the family—the big shot. I could feel the eyes darting between us, everyone waiting to see who’d speak first.

Nobody wanted to be the first to speak up. You could practically see the calculation in their eyes—don’t mess with the guy who signs your checks, even if he’s dead wrong. In our family, money talks, and Matt talks loudest.

“Matt, your front end hit my rear, and my car never even left the spot. How could I have blocked your way? Plus, my spot isn’t even near the exit!”

I kept my voice level, but my jaw was tight. I pointed to the painted lines, to the gap between my car and the exit lane. It was right there, plain as day. Even the little kids could see it.

There was something else I didn’t say—Matt was clearly drunk. If the cops showed up and called it a DUI, even if I had been in the way, he’d still be fully responsible. But I kept my mouth shut. Family, right?

The last thing I wanted was to air out our dirty laundry in front of everyone. But the truth was, Matt could barely stand up straight. I bit my tongue, knowing that calling him out for drunk driving would blow the whole thing up.

Before Matt could answer, his wife—my cousin-in-law, Amanda—jumped in, her voice sharp as a tack. She never missed a beat.

She marched over in her fur-lined boots, arms folded tight, lips pursed. Amanda never missed a chance to stir the pot, especially if it meant defending her husband.

“Evan, is that any way to talk to your cousin? If your car wasn’t parked there, would we have crashed? So technically, you blocked us in. You should pay for our repairs!”

She said it like she was reading from a script. Her words were crisp and rehearsed. For a second, I wondered if she actually believed what she was saying, or if she just liked hearing herself talk.

Her logic made me laugh out of sheer disbelief. It’s not like they own the parking lot. Seriously?

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. Did she think the world revolved around their parking preferences?

And my car was in a legal spot. How did that block their way?

I gestured at the parking sign, the white lines, the empty lane. "Amanda, you see the same lines I do, right? This is a public lot, not your private driveway."

Plus, there was a fence right in front of my car. What, did they plan on flying over it to skip the exit?

I shot a look at the battered fence, then back at her. "Unless you two were planning on launching the BMW over that fence, I just don’t see how I was in your way."

“Evan, I’m not trying to pick on you,” Matt chimed in, “but this really is your fault. If you hadn’t parked here, I could’ve just driven straight out!”

Matt’s words stumbled out, echoing Amanda’s argument almost word-for-word. He looked at her for backup, his bravado faltering just a bit. I rolled my eyes. Here we go again.

Birds of a feather, I guess. Matt was just parroting Amanda, only less clever.

It was like watching a bad improv routine. The two of them, trading lines, hoping someone would buy the act.

And the lane in the lot was plenty wide—at least ten or twelve feet. Even a rookie could have made that turn with one hand on the wheel. Unbelievable.

I remembered teaching my little sister to drive in this very lot. Weaving through cones and parked cars. If she could do it at sixteen, Matt had no excuse.

Judging by how hard he rammed into my trunk, he must’ve floored the gas without bothering to steer. There was only one explanation—he was wasted, stomped the pedal, and lost control.

It was obvious to anyone watching. You don’t hit a parked car that hard unless you’re drunk or blind. And Matt was definitely not blind.

But Matt and Amanda insisted it was my fault for blocking them. Unreal.

Their voices grew louder, more insistent, as if repeating the lie would somehow make it true. A couple of the younger cousins exchanged glances, uncomfortable. I could feel my patience wearing thin.

Let’s be real: even if my car hadn’t been there, the way Matt was driving, he would’ve gone straight through the fence. Maybe even over it.

I pictured it for a second—Matt’s BMW airborne, landing on Main Street. The image almost made me laugh. But the stakes were too high for jokes.

And past that fence? The street—at least fifteen or twenty feet down. At that speed, if he’d gone over, he’d be lucky to survive, let alone walk away.

The drop was steep, and the thought sent a chill through me. My car might’ve saved his life, not that he’d ever admit it.

My car probably kept things from getting worse. Yet Matt had the gall to blame me. It was like saving someone from drowning and getting yelled at for getting their shirt wet.

I honestly don’t get what goes on in their heads. Maybe it’s because I’m usually too easygoing. Or maybe they’re just used to throwing their money around.

I’d always been the one to let things slide, to keep the peace at family gatherings. Maybe they thought that made me weak. Maybe I’d let them think that for too long.

But this time, I wasn’t in the wrong—Matt was. If I let this slide, who knows how they’d treat me next? Enough was enough.