Page 19 of Fighting for You
“Brooks? Where are you calling from?”
I run a hand down my face, dreading what I have to say. “Jail.” I don’t elaborate. I knew the second I said the word, he’d start in with a million questions, so I didn’t see the point.
“Excuse me? Did you just—holy fuck. Thea is going to kill you! Jail? Again? What did you do this time?”
When he finally takes a breath, I interrupt, “Can we just… keep it between us, maybe? The shithead decided not to press charges, so I just need someone to come pick me up. My bike isn’t here.”
“Oh. Uh, shit. Yeah. Give me like… ten minutes, and I’ll leave here.”
“Thanks, man. I’m in Southbury, not Indigo.”
“Got it. Okay. Be there soon. I expect the full story when I pick your sorry ass up.”
“Yup,” is all I say in response before I’m hanging up.
Chapter Eight
Margot
Ishift my car into park and look out at the dilapidated house in front of me. In the dim light of the moon overhead combined with my headlights, I can see one of the shutters on the second story is hanging askew, there are a few roof shingles missing, and the front porch steps are crumbling. I heave a sigh. I’ve asked Hayes repeatedly to get someone out here to fix the structural issues at least; the last thing we need is for the steps to collapse under someone.
Maybe I can ask Brooks to come take a look. I’m surprised Hayes hasn’t already, since Brooks is his handyman.
But then I reconsider—it would lead to questions I’m not sure I would want Brooks to know the answers to. He’d see my dad, how he lives, how he’s let everything go.
I’d have to explain how my brother raised me, making my lunches for school, signing permission slips, and driving me to and from dance classes. All the while my dad drank himselfunconscious in between crying bouts and telling me I look just like our mom.
But maybe Brooks would understand. From what Lydia said, he had a difficult relationship with his own father. Mine wasn’t mean while I was growing up, mostly he just wasn’t there. Physically, he was parked in front of the TV with a bottle in hand, but a big part of him died alongside my mom, at least that’s what I’ve been told. Besides the short moments of sobriety he managed over the years—which were few and far between—this is the version of him I grew up with.
Things were different before I came back. Hayes and I lived here before I went to college, and my brother took a more active role in caretaking for our father. He wanted my sole focus to be on school and being a normal teenager.
Once I moved out to Charleston, Hayes moved out on his own too and only checked in periodically with Dad. I guess he was done raising a kid, he didn’t feel like raising his father also. I didn’t realize all he did for him until I came back and assumed the responsibility myself.
I make a mental note to talk to Hayes about the condition of the house again as I step out of my car and up the precarious steps. As soon as I open the door and the stench of stale alcohol hits my nostrils, my phone rings.
Hayes.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Margot,” he says.Not the usual “Booger” I’m used to, this must be serious.“Where are you?”
“I’m at Dad’s,” I reply. “Everything okay?”
He grunts, and someone else speaks in the background on his end, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. “Fuck,” Hayes mutters. “I need you.”
“What’s going on?”
“I need you to come to The Pit—I mean, the clearing that backs up to woods off the Pineville Road dead end.” Something in his voice tells me not to ask any more questions.
“I’ll be there in a few,” I say, already closing the door behind me.
There’s only background noise on his end, then he clips out, “Bring your bag,” and the line goes dead.
My bag. The emergency bag I keep in my car in case I need to staunch bleeding or bandage a wound or administer naloxone. My stomach bottoms out, but I keep moving, getting behind the wheel of my car and peeling out of my dad’s long gravel driveway, hooking a left toward Pineville Road.
Hayes has never asked me for help before, not like this at least. Potential scenarios run through my head, each one more dire than the last, but what I’m most confused about is the location—‘The Pit’ as he called it. The clearing he referred to is set about three hundred feet back from the dead-end road, past a cluster of woods. It’s technically located on the back end of Dad’s property, right around where it abuts the nature preserve. There’s nothing there. The closest neighbor is miles down the road in the opposite direction. What could he possibly be doing there, and why did I hear so many voices in the background?
As soon as I turn off my car, the thumping of bass reverberates throughout the small space, coming from somewhere beyond the trees in front of me. I parked on the grass off Pineville Road where it hits a dead end that backs up to the woods at the edge of Dad’s land. There are a few other cars scattered around theentrance to an off-road path about the width of one car. Time and what appears to be regular use by cars have worn tracks into the grass and dirt.
