Page 74 of Fighting for You
I don’t say anything to anyone as I rush out the doors of Saint Stephen’s and hastily walk to my car. I scan the parking lot, praying he’s not waiting for me here knowing the reaction his letter would have on me.
I break all of the speed limits on my way home, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror making sure I’m not being followed. My stomach is in knots, and I can’t think clearly. I don’t have a plan. I was supposed to be safe here. He wasn’t supposed to follow me.
I slam the car into park and run to my door, head on a swivel looking at my neighbors’ yards, like he might be hiding behind a bush. The chill bites at my face where tears are streaking down my cheeks. I didn’t even notice I’m crying.
After sliding all of the locks on my front door into place, I drop my jacket and purse on the floor, not bothering to hangeither. I move throughout my house, checking the windows and pulling down the shades, and confirm the back door is locked as well. Taking the steps two at a time, I run upstairs, locking myself in my bedroom.
I clear my not-dirty-not-clean clothes pile off the chair in the corner of my bedroom and prop it under the door handle before I climb into my bed and pull the covers over my head.
The initial adrenaline of fight-or-flight has left me, and now my body is exhausted but still gripped by panic. Tears keep flowing, and my head is a mess, but all I can do is lie here and try to block the world out.
Chapter Thirty
Brooks
Ihaven’t had a drink since Christmas. It’s been six long days, and I’ve gone through more packs of cigarettes than I ever have in a week. The decision to quit drinking wasn’t even a conscious one. But I knew it needed to happen. My head is already clearer.
I still itch for the burn of liquor. I still crave the buzz and how it puts the world behind a filter. But I’m trying to better myself. I’m trying to prove myself wrong for once. I’ve seen what alcohol addiction can do to someone; I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve turned into an absentee father who relies on his daughter to care for his drunk ass.
Margot may not realize it, but seeing her dad that day left an impact on me. I haven’t been able to shake the image of him on the floor covered in his own vomit. It opened my eyes to how much further I could fall if I stay on the same path. I saw how much it hurt her. I may have hurt her in other ways, and I may never get her back, but I refuse to be a carbon copy of her father.
Those thoughts are to blame for me sitting outside of Keaton Mason’s house with a cab full of groceries, a bag from Billy’s Hardware, and a truck bed filled with lumber and tools for the stairs. I know it’s not my place, but even if she never speaks to me again, I want to lessen the load Margot bears.
And she hasn’t spoken to me. Not since she told me to get out of the trailer. She barely looked at me. I’ve spent every night since then drawing her, in every medium—acrylic, watercolor, pencils, charcoal—anything I could find. I can’t get her sad yet fierce face out of my head. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I want to.
I open my glove compartment and pull out the original drawing of her I did. The first sketch I’d done in way too many years to count. She brought it all back. She’s the spark to my flame.
The pencil lines are slightly smudged from sitting in my pocket for the last two weeks. Tracing the angles of her face with my fingers, I kick myself again for ruining it all. Maybe one day I’ll try again. I’ll do what needs to be done to grow into the man she deserves, and I’ll try again. I’ll fight for us, even if she doesn’t want to.
After one more longing stare, I put the drawing back in the glove compartment and grab the bags from the passenger seat. I place them on the porch then go back for a second trip. Once the materials are all sitting on the porch, I jump up past the stairs and knock on the door. Ten long seconds of silence pass before I knock again, harder this time.
Just as I’m about to knock for a third time, the door swings open. “What?” Keaton hollers. When he sees it’s me, his scowl softens. Smell of day-old beer wafts off him. “What do you want?” He stumbles out of the door a little, peering around the corner. “Is Margot with you?”
I shake my head as I say, “Nope,” popping the ‘p’ dramatically. “Just me this time.”
He’s looking at all the bags on the porch, confusion evident on his face.
“I hear you have a broken dishwasher, and those steps are a fucking safety hazard.” He peers back up at me, not saying a word. “So, you gonna let me in or…?”
It’s been two hours. The first thirty minutes were spent stocking the refrigerator and throwing out all the old shit. It was… a lot. It’s clear no one has been over in a while. I told Keaton to take a shower, and I’d make him some lunch. He fussed at first, saying he didn’t need me to do anything for him. I stared him down until he finally put his hands up and relented.
The shower took longer than I expected. He smelled like the last shower he had was the one I helped him with, so maybe I should be thankful he took his time. I cleaned up a bit while he was gone and had a sandwich ready when he came back out. It was nothing special, but he seemed appreciative regardless.
I’m finishing up with the dishwasher now, checking to make sure it runs properly before calling it done. Keaton has been silently watching me from the dining room table the whole time. Never asking why I’m here or what I’m doing since the first time at the door.
As I shut the dishwasher, feeling accomplished that I fixed it pretty quickly, a throat clears behind me.
I turn around to face him, leaning back on the counter. “Spit it out.”
His eyes go wide like he wasn’t expecting me to spur him on. “Where is Margot?”
Not the question I thought he’d ask. “Probably at work. It’s the middle of a weekday after all.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean why are you here without her? Why isn’t she with you?”
I give it a second but stare him right in the eyes when I say, “She doesn’t know I’m here.” He looks at me, like he’s waiting for me to say more. It’s unnerving, so much so, I crack. “She hasn’t talked to me in almost a week now, and she probably won’t anytime soon. I fucked things up with her.”
I’m not sure how I expect him to respond. Will he be pissed? Tell me to get the fuck out just like his daughter did? Ask me how I fucked it up?
