Page 5 of Carver
“Good. I need to have the stamina to outlast you.”
Since I was a kid, I’ve been conditioned to the cruel ugliness of the world. Poverty, injustice, violence, addiction, the basic struggle for survival. I was the epitome of fucked up and unloved, but Bronte saw me. She’s always been patient and kind.
Her family should have hated me for her, but they didn’t. They loved me like I was their own kid. They accepted that I was Bronte’s choice and trusted her so implicitly, that they believed that even at fourteen, she knew what she was about.
She knew what she wanted and what she wanted was me.
She’s never wavered.
Neither have they.
This is all on me.
Bronte crosses her arms, face grim and set with determination. “I’ll find you whether you tell me where you’ll be or not. I’ll always find you, Dominic. Even if I have to travel to the deepest dark of the underworld to pull you back.”
Bronte’s as into literature as her mom. She reads the heavy stuff, the old stuff, the shit no one else is reading, and shegetsit.
“Even if I have to force my way intoyourunderworld…”
Yeah. She fucking gets it. She gets me.
“I’m not going to tell you and you’re not fucking going to Hart. I don’t want you there. If you show up, I swear on my dad’s grave that I’ll never speak to you again.”
She shakes her head, her teeth biting into her bottom lip until it’s crimson from the pressure. “Fuck you, Dominic Hale.”
The door bangs shut and claps back a few times, since the frame is so decrepit you have to lift it and use force to get it to close properly. The sound of Bronte’s truck door opening and slamming, the old engine groaning to life, and the tires spinning in the gravel are all magnified.
I stand at the useless old single pane window and watch her leave, the very tail end of her truck obscured by the new cobwebs on the outside.
She didn’t mean it. She’s entitled to her frustration, her hurt, her anger, and if I’m being honest, she’s equally entitled to her love, her compassion, and her hope that refuses to die.
She didn’t mean it, because she knowsIdidn’t mean it. My dad doesn’t have a fucking grave. And I’ve tried my darndest to push Bronte away andfailed. There’s never going to be a world where all that I am stops loving her, and we both know it.
Chapter 2
Bronte
Over the next week, I keep a close eye on Dominic’s place, driving by once a day. His rundown truck, more holes and rust than metal at this point, remains parked on the shadowy right side of the house, the tires just about flat on all sides, the earth working hard to reclaim it.
It’s been a full week now. I have no idea when he’s leaving for Hart. It could be tomorrow or weeks from now. Months, even.
This is everything I’ve hoped for, but at the same time, it feels as though the world is caving in around me.
I can’t focus on doubts. I’ve had more than enough of those over the past years. I’ve come through it. My life has changed so fundamentally and Dominic, the person I love and trust most in the world, has no idea. It wasn’t just his body that stone crushed. I lost the man I loved that day. He became someone else. Someone who pretended he was hard and uncaring. What his dad and uncles couldn’t touch, that stone took away in a matter of hours.
I’ve had to learn grace and patience and perseverance, the likes of which I couldn’t even fathom. I’ve had to relearn how to love a man who has done almost everything he could to be unlovable.
I don’t know what it is today that tips me off, but something about Dominic’s place just seems… wrong. Like the life has gone out of it. I like to think that we’re so connected toeach other, but I had no idea that he was hurt and bleeding out that day. I almost lost him, and I was completely unaware.
Just like Dominic doesn’t know my greatest secret.
I pull down the driveway, dodging the potholes. I’ve brought some more albums for him. It’s a tradition. Every week I bring something other than groceries. He doesn’t have a TV, but he does have a laptop. Sometimes, I bring DVDs because he doesn’t do streaming services. Other times, I drop off books. He has an ancient record player that he loves, so usually, it’s records.
I stop at the house first, trying the door. It’s old and is sometimes swollen, sitting askew in the frame. It needs a real shove to open or close.
I do both, leaning my shoulder into it and forcing it open. I learned early that I just had to step all over Dominic’s boundaries. He never agreed to see me or let me come here. He told me often enough that he didn’t want me to. If he was anyone else, I might have listened. I might be wrong, but I think it’s bullshit that one person can’t save another.
I’m wrong.
