Page 84 of Villainous Summer

As I made my way downstairs, I hummed to myself.

The night before confirmed a lot of theories I had about Summer and why she was so closed off. As I knew, she was hurt by him, and it would take a while to earn her trust enough to be let in. My actions would have to do the talking.

With that, I busied myself, making breakfast.

My normal routine of sweet cereal wouldn’t be enough. I had to break out the big guns of bacon and eggs and toast. She mentioned the night before that, while she wasn’t supposed to go into the hotel, she needed to stop by later to check on new furniture set to arrive. That meant I only had a few hours with her before she’d have to leave me again. But we’d make a plan for dinner afterward.

No noise rustled from upstairs, so I tidied up for when she would wake. I even cut a rose from the bush and set it in a small vase I had found under the sink.

In the living room, an alarm pinged from her charging phone.

As I picked it up to silence it, her screen opened. I was surprised to find she didn’t have a code. On the screen was a list half checked off.

Goat ad

Gym pictures

Butterfly attack

STI notice

Lost dog

Cheating proof

Fraud

As the items on the list went on, they got worse. I could never understand what went on in a woman’s mind, and this bizarre list was one I would file away under Summer being Summer.

With a garbage bag in hand, I stepped out onto the porch. The door hadn’t even closed behind me when I stopped in my tracks to see a familiar old truck pulling in.

Our eyes met, and it was too late for me to turn tail and go back inside. Inside, where a beautiful Summer was sleeping naked in my bed. Inside, where I could hope to be a better man for her.

Instead, I stood on the front porch, waiting for my father to descend from his ridiculously lifted truck.

The years had not been good to him. His once-shiny dark hair, laced with stringy gray strands, was in desperate need of a trim. His brown eyes, once so mischievous and clear, were rimmed red with puffy bags.

He groaned loudly as his feet hit the pavement. “Donovan. Long time no see.”

His statement rolled out as if we were old friends, as if my last words to him ten years before weren’t a vow to never see him again.

“Bruce.”

I affected a flat tone.

He ambled up the walkway, his hands in his pockets.

He was thinner, sporting a new bicep tattoo of an anchor with Refuse to sink in block letters.

“How you been, son?”

Gripping the bag tight, I considered how much of a mess it would be to dump the trash over his head.

It was a juvenile thought, but if you can’t feel juvenile about your shitty parent, when can you?

“Fine.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You gonna invite me in? It’s my house, after all.”

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