Page 7 of Fighting for You
I look around the rundown living room and sigh. I pick up a couple of empty bottles scattered around his chair and the takeout containers that appear to have been sitting on the coffee table for a few days already. Carrying everything over to the kitchen, I see it’s not in any better condition. Dirty dishes overflow from the sink and line the counters. The stench from the trash assaults me from across the room.
I flip open the top on the trash bin, and my shoulders drop. The pamphlets I left last time along with the calendar of meetings taking place in the basement of the local church sit on top, covered in oil stains and cigarette butts. I guess he’s still notready. I drop the food containers I collected and turn to the rest of the kitchen.
I spend the next forty-five minutes tidying up and then throw a load of laundry in the wash. The dishes take me longer than usual because the dishwasher refuses to work, so I clean and dry everything by hand. Once all the dishes are put away, I wipe down the counters and toss all the old and questionable food from the fridge. I restock the freezer with the frozen-ready meals he likes and sneak in some fruits and vegetables into the crisper drawer. I don’t expect he’ll eat them, but at least he has the option.
I drop and sort through the pile of mail I picked up at the end of his half-mile long driveway, tossing the junk and separating the bills and royalty checks. He was a songwriter and got lucky with a few big hits back in the 90s. The songs still get played on oldies stations and in nationwide commercial campaigns for paper towels and a major office supply chain. He routinely gets two to three checks a month, making just enough to keep the lights on and the bottom-shelf liquor plentiful.
The bathroom down the hall is in much better shape than the kitchen.Thank God.Using a single-use scrubber wand, I scour the toilet and make a mental note to bring some body wash next time I come by.
Once the laundry machine signals the end of the cycle, I swap the clothes into the dryer. After emptying the trash and recycling bags, I place them by the front door to take to the outside bins.
Looking around the space, I can’t believe how decades of neglect have turned what used to be a cozy family home into a purgatory for the man at the center of it—just waiting for the day he can reunite with his late wife. At least that’s the story I tell myself, it’s more romantic than drinking himself to death as a shut-in on his eighty-acre property.
I watch as he breathes steadily. His chest moving up and down under his flannel shirt. Looking at my phone, I see it’s after midnight already. Draping a threadbare blanket over him, I whisper, “See you later, Daddy. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Then I grab the trash bags I left by the door and close it behind me.
Chapter Three
Brooks
I’d spent my whole day at some shithole-in-the-wall bar two towns over. I’d even lost track of time, almost missing our night before Thanksgiving family dinner. But as I rushed out of the bar and onto my motorcycle, pulling out my phone, I realized none of them had texted me to find out if I was still coming.
None of them expected me to show up.
The closer I got to Indigo Hill, the madder I became. So by the time I walked into RED and saw them all having a grand fucking time, not at all fazed by my absence, I let my fury out. Specifically, on Cary. I decided to throw a grenade into his shitstorm and watch it detonate in his face.
Cary saw it coming, and the moment I said, “Oh, he didn’t tell you? He and Thea go way back. High school sweethearts and all that,” you could practically see the fumes coming out of his ears. He tried to turn it around on me, but I only dug his grave deeper by outing him for the other secret he’d been keeping. And I won’tlie, even now after the air has cleared from the explosion I set loose, I still feel pretty smug about the whole thing.
I am well aware—despite what everyone thinks—about the shit going down in this town. I just don’t parade around shouting everyone’s business like most. From the second Cary came back into town, I knew it would all implode. I knew what he was hiding. He thought living in Seattle and shunning our family meant none of us would keep up with him, but I had. I’d read every article. The second I found out about Carina Cove opening, I was on their website looking at photos. I kept up with my little brother even when he didn’t care to keep up with me.
And we’d talked—if you could call it that. It wasn’t much, but we had our every-other-month phone call. I stuck to it. I kept up with him. I asked questions. So I knew all the dirty secrets he was keeping close to his chest when he arrived in Indigo Hill. I watched him fall for Thea all over again, knowing he has someone else in Seattle.
And maybe it made me an asshole to light the proverbial match and then sit back and watch it all go up in flames for him, but he made his bed. Now he needs to face his fuck-ups and figure out how to move on. I’d tell him that if he wasn’t so pissed he isn’t speaking to me currently.
Once both women left, Cary had unloaded on me.
“You just couldn’t fucking help yourself, could you?” he’d spat.
“Me?You’rethe one who chose to fuck around and find out, don’t blame me for your bullshit.” I was seething listening to him berate me like I was the one who started the whole mess, but all I’d given him was an eye roll.
“I was handling it.”
“Oh, right, like you ‘handled’ being with two women at once? Fuck off, Cary. You fucked up. For once, just own it.”
He’d gotten up from his chair, shoving it back so hard it made a scratching noise against the floor. “Fuck. You,” he’d thrown in my direction before heading toward the bar.
Now, he’s drinking his problems away. Ripley and I are the only ones left at the table. I’m surprised neither of them ran after Thea, but I wasn’t about to ask why. Ripley’s been happily munching on all of the small plates, watching the exchange.
“Well,” Ripley starts as he brings his glass to his lips, “That was an epic dumpster fire.”
I laugh it off without responding. Then he promptly says, “I’ll be right back, gotta piss,” and gets up from his seat beside me. I give him an up-nod in response as I signal Tiffany over for another drink. My gaze flits around the now empty table, one filled with my closest friends and family just thirty-minutes ago. I’m sure they’ll all blame me for what happened.
I’m just finishing my bite of some sort of crab-stuffed pastry puff when my eyes catch on Ripley’s phone as it lights up on the table with a new incoming message. I look over at it, expecting the message to be from Thea, maybe an update on how she’s doing. It is definitely not from Thea, and the text itself exposes another secret from within our circle.
11/27 9:57 p.m.
West: Couldn’t find someone else to stretch that pretty asshole? **wink emoji**
