Page 85 of Fighting for You
“Then what, Hayes? What did he say?”
“He asked if her name is Margot.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Margot
My knees are actually weak. I feel like one of those Victorian ladies needing to pull out a fan to blow air into my overheated face as I watch Brooks ride off on his motorcycle, the engine rumbling through my chest cavity. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how sexy the man looks on his bike.
Our conversation this morning helped heal some of the hurt his actions dealt at Christmas. Do I think everything between us is perfect? No, but we’ll get there. As long as Brooks doesn’t get in his head again, doesn’t avoid talking to me, and doesn’t push me away, we’ll figure it out. It’ll take some time to trust he won’t turn around and hurt me again, but I’m cautiously optimistic we’ll get there because I believe him when he says he loves me. He’s sincere about it, he’s just also scared, but I’m determined to show him he’s worth it. Worth everything.
Though I’m not a violent person, I’m ready to fight anyone who says anything negative about him. Yes, the man has made some questionable decisions, but it’s only out of self-preservation. He’s learned to be reactive to keep himself safe. I’m determined to show him he’s safe with me, safe with his friends, his brother.
With a big sigh and an even bigger grin, I turn to my dad’s house, ready to face whatever is behind the front door. Having neglected pretty much everything for the last week, I can only hope Hayes made it out here to take care of Dad.
Since we were on the bike, I didn’t ask Brooks to swing by the grocery store before coming here. I’ll have to make a list of what I need to get tomorrow after I clean up.
I’m running through my mental to-do list as, out of habit, I tread carefully up the front steps, staying close to the rickety railing just in case today’s the day they finally fall apart under my weight.
With my hand inches from the handle of the door, I pause then turn around. Pushing my curls out of my face, I actually look at the front steps. It’s not just new boards as a makeshift fix for the rotted ones, it’s a whole new structure, like it’s been rebuilt entirely.
Huh,I think.Hayes must have put a foot through the rotting wood if he finally took the time to fix the steps.I eye the work for a few more moments, impressed by the craftsmanship and pleased my brother finally invested some time into helping around here.
Between waking up next to Brooks and now this, today is turning into a great day—especially after the turmoil of the past week. My tummy is still tight with nerves knowing Julian’s out there somewhere, but it’s lessened knowing I’ll be staying with Brooks. The memory of his arms around me last night and this morning feels like armor. He’d never let anything happen to me.
Still pleasantly buzzing, I enter the house. Expecting to be greeted by the usual stale smell of alcohol and old food, my brow furrows when I find the house smelling strongly of cleaningproducts—the scent of lemon wood cleaner and bleach most prominent.
The smell isn’t the only change. The living room is tidy, clean even. There are no liquor bottles on the coffee table or floor, the curtains are pulled open so the room is bathed in the mid-morning January sun. I place the helmet I’m still holding on the side table and run my hand across the back of the couch, across the neatly folded blanket hanging over the edge.
My confusion grows when I enter the kitchen and find it spotless, minus a couple of dishes in the sink.
Did Hayes hire a cleaner?I can’t imagine he did all of this himself. Usually I’m lucky if he throws the trash in the bin. Hayes’ resentment of our dad has grown significantly over the last few years. When he bothers to come at all, he typically drops off food, makes sure Dad hasn’t aspirated in his sleep, and leaves; so the state of the house is raising more than a few questions.
I snap my head to the door to the kitchen when I hear shuffling coming from down the hall seconds before my dad walks into the room.
“Oh, hi, Margot. I didn’t hear you come in,” he says.
There’s silence for a beat… or sixteen as I take him in. His eyes are clear, a warm coffee brown. He looks like he just climbed out of the shower if his wet hair is any indication. The sweater and jeans he’s wearing are clean, not marred by three day-old stains. He looks… sober. Good, even.
Me staring with my mouth agape must make him uncomfortable because he shifts on his feet and looks around the kitchen before clearing his throat. “I, uh—I was going to do some laundry, but…” He trails off, his cheeks turning pink. “Well, I’ve never used this machine, and I couldn’t figure it out. Think you can show me?”
I’m shocked out of my stupor by his words. “Yeah—Yeah, I can show you,” I say and follow him down the hall where the laundry machine sits in a closet.
I spend a few minutes showing him the different settings and explaining when to use each one. All the while, my mind is reeling.What is happening right now? What alternate universe is this?
Once he’s pressed start on the machine and it rumbles to life, we make our way back to the kitchen. Dad goes over to the fridge, cracking it open. “Want anything to drink?”
“No,” I say, just a tinge of disappointment seeping into my chest. “Thank you.”
When he turns around and shuts the fridge before heading over to the small kitchen table, I notice a bottle of water in his hand. He sits at the table and looks at me. “So, what’s going on? How’s work going? You’re at the old folks’ home still, right?”
I’m once again rendered silent by confusion. I can’t remember the last time I had a moment with my dad when he was sober, let alone a conversation where he asked me something as mundane as how my job is going.
Not knowing how to stand here and have a conversation with him, I busy myself with opening the fridge and taking inventory of the contents as I answer him, “Yeah, Saint Stephen’s, and it’s been great so far. The residents are great, and they’re flexible with my hours. Just… great.”
My eyes scan the milk, bread, and fresh produce, along with a few containers of leftovers which don’t look to be more than a day old. My bewilderment grows because this isn’t what Hayes typically brings. He usually just throws a few pre-packaged dinners in Dad’s freezer and calls it good.
“Listen,” Dad starts. “I—”
