Page 71 of Holding On To Good

“Please, Urban. I…” She stopped and swallowed, her eyes shiny. “I could really use a friend.”

“Simone Halpert is still in town,” he said, naming one of her high school girlfriends. “She’s a receptionist at the hospital, married to John Martin. They have a son around Josh’s age.”

Miranda’s jaw dropped, her brows drawing together in confusion. Stunned to be told no. To have him mean it and hold his ground.

Unsure what to do about it.

She studied him, trying to figure out how to convince him to give in, to get her way. Then she inclined her head, gracious in defeat, as if granting him the right to refuse her.

“I’ll be sure to look Simone up. Thank you.” She opened her purse and dug around in it. “Here, let me give you my number…” A moment later, she pulled out a pink sticky note. Held it out to him. “In case you change your mind.”

He looked at the paper in her hand. Made no move to take it. “Let me walk you to your car.”

“No need,” she said, tone brisk, smile brittle. “I remember my way.” Eyes on his, she leaned over and laid the paper on the table. Straightened. “Goodbye, Urban.”

“Goodbye, Miranda.”

He watched her navigate the path, waited there long after she’d gone around the corner of the house. Stayed motionless until after he heard her car start then drive away.

Only then did he go back inside.

Leaving her number on the table.

Chapter Thirteen

Shirtless and sweating from the heat, the open window doing little more than bringing even more humid, stale air into his room, Reed sat on his bed with his back against the wall, Rush’s “2112” blasting through his headphones, his eyes closed.

Sundays sucked.

Now that he was done with school, he could put in at least eight hours a day, Mondays through Saturdays, at DiFonzio’s Garage before heading to The Cock-Eyed Chameleon for another four to six. But both businesses were closed on Sundays.

No work meant no money.

No work meant nowhere to go.

Most Sundays, he’d take off first thing in the morning, put Titus in the truck and head to the lake or into Pittsburgh. Waste the day until it was time for his mom to get home from the grocery store where she ran a cash register or the motel where she cleaned rooms and did laundry.

But once a month, she, too, had Sundays off.

And Reed hated leaving her alone with the old man.

Almost as much as he hated seeing them together.

Hated how his mom did everything the bastard told her to. How she waited on him hand and foot, getting him a cold beer, making him dinner. Reed tried to help her out—doing the dishes and laundry and keeping the lawn mowed—but Pete always found some way that she was lacking. Always had a put-down or criticism. He called her a worthless whore, told her she was ugly and fat and stupid and lazy and no other man would want her.

Reed hated how small she got, as if Pete’s words were slowly chipping away at her. How she apologized and accepted whatever bullshit he threw at her as if it was her due.

Hated how she’d beg Reed to stop when he stuck up for her.

But the worst part was when she meekly followed Pete into their bedroom, no fear or sadness in her eyes, no bitterness or heartbreak.

Just emptiness.

Today was even worse. She was using again.

After almost an entire year of sobriety, she was back on the pills. Oxy or Adderall or whatever she could get her hands on, whatever she could get away with and still work. Whatever she could afford that wouldn’t cut into her paychecks so much that Pete would question where the money went.

Enough to help her get through another day.

---