Page 76 of Only for Love

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Grayson

Ground zero. I’m here. At Pops’s home—a place I'd like to watch burn down to its weed-infested plot. But I couldn’t stay away. It was a rust-bucket shithole when I was last here, but years have weathered it to the point I’m surprised it can still stand.

Even with the summer night’s breeze swaying the high grass around me, I can’t kick the apprehension that has an ironclad hold on my lungs. This trailer is poison. The man inside is my hell. I’m the one who ruined his life. But I still can’t fathom how a man can hate his son.

I blow out a harsh, uneasy breath. Since the second I left Titan Group’s headquarters, I’d wanted to call Emma. But I also want all my shit in check before I do that. After I confront my demon and get that in order, I’ll head her way and prove that I’m every bit of the future she deserves.

I square my shoulders back and climb the rickety, rotten steps. They sway under my weight, and when I knock on the door, it swings open. The stench of cheap liquor and stale pot is overwhelming. There’s a cigarette smoldering in an overfilled makeshift ashtray, and Pops is passed out on the couch.

Damn. He looks like an old man rotting away from the inside out who just suffered through a barroom brawl. His wrinkled skin is checked with gray stubble. His sunken eyes are black, and scratches color his skin. His split lip is yellow and nicotine stained as is the hand wrapped around a generic-looking beer can.

On the coffee table are several empty and semi-crushed cigarette packs, a can of dip next to an empty soda bottle used for spitting, and an almost empty pack of papers. I shake my head. Pot seeds and stems are in a sandwich bag, and there are enough fast food wrappers on the floor to givemecholesterol.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess,” I whisper under my breath.

“And you’re not welcome in my home.” He coughs, swollen eyes not opening. “Out, ’fer I call the cops.”

“Right.” I pass him and wander to my bedroom. It’s the same as when I left it three years ago. Backpack on the floor, unmade bed. An old wallet is next to my backpack, opened, with its contents strewn about. A couple of drawers in my dresser are pulled out. Guess Pops didn’t care that I was gone, but he sure wanted to know if I left any cash behind.

My head hurts from a combination of the stink and the memories, and I swipe my bag off the floor and drop to my bed. The bag is open, but there’s nothing in it that Pops could want—nothing but a couple notebooks that are worn. One makes my pulse pound. I grab it and crack it open.

A lump grows in my throat as I page through each scrawled and stopped note. My heart hurts, and I flip through the sheets of lined paper.

Hey Ems,

We need to talk. Last night went bad, and I need to see you.

X, Gray

Pages later.

Emma,

I’m not sure how many times I can try to say this, so here it is. I enlisted—like in the Army. I’m leaving Summerland in a few weeks, and what happened after Sadie Hawkins, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.

That one note had a giant X through it, and I vividly remember sitting in senior English, contemplating whether she’d think that “wasn’t meant to happen” part was about us hooking up or about Pops walking in. I didn’t finish that note, and when I walked out of class that day and saw her, I went the opposite direction. I’m a fuckin’ moron.

I skip through the pages and can see my eighteen-year-old self trying to describe why I was running and why I couldn’t tell her I was leaving.

Finally, I’m on the last written page in the notebook.

Ems, I love you. One day I hope you understand. Yours forever, Gray

I slap the notebook shut and shove it in the bag. There’s nothing else that I need. My space in this shithouse is a stark contrast to the rest of the trailer. Other than what Pops went through, everything is orderly. There are athletic awards and trophies on the walls and equipment in the corner—football pads, baseball bats, and a collection of balls. Taped to the mirror are two pictures. One is a family portrait of the Kingsleys, except I’m in there, too. We were at a lake picnic, and I remember dreaming that they were my family.

The other is Emma. She’s not looking at the camera, and she’s wearing a shirt I’m positive she made herself. A camera is slung over her shoulder, and she’s midturn to me. I snapped it with my phone.

“What’d you do that for?”

My arm drops to my side, phone in hand. I'm not sure that I even grabbed a good shot of her. But she’s staring at me, and I just want to say, “I love you.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah?”

“The picture? Don’t do that. I look terrible.”

---