Page 25 of Letters of Faith
First, he had to go and die—leaving me without a best friend, and now this.
He couldn’t leave well enough alone, which is on par for him. He was always fixing situations—fixing me—and I always told him to stop sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He never minded my gruffness, laughing in my face most times. It made me want to throw a punch to the smugness that always spread across his face every time his plans worked. This isn’t one of those times, though. This plan isn’t going to work.
Another punch, and the blood starts to pour down my wrist. I should stop—get control of my temper—but rage burns through my veins, sending every other emotion up in flames.
This whole situation is messed up, and the worst part is—I know Georgia needed those letters. She’s been floundering, and I haven’t been able to help her.
But, dang it, if that doesn’t sting.
A roar rips out of my chest as my fists meet the bag, a flurry of motion until I’m standing here with my chest heaving up and down, unable to lift my hands one more time.
Blood is spattered over my arms, dotting the ink etched into my skin and painting it red. I spy it—the orchid setting just above my wrist. Red is smeared over the purple ink. It’s the only tattoo I have that’s in color. The symbolism of my blood smeared over the tattoo, meant to be a promise to Nate, doesn’t escape me. The only way I’ll ever get the girl of my dreams is at the expense of my friend.
______________________
An hour later, after washing away the evidence of losing my control, there’s a knock at my door. I know it’s not Georgia because when she left, she said she was visiting Ellie and her parents today. From experience, she won’t be back until late tonight, so whoever is standing on the other side of my door is either brave or stupid.
My house is my refuge—a place away from this town’s drama and the stress of my job. There aren’t many people I let come here—one, I let one person here.
Swinging the door open, I cross my arms over my chest, making sure that the bruises on my knuckles are showing. When I see the man on the other side, my jaw flexes, and I itch to reach out and split my knuckles open one more time—preferably on his front tooth.
Kip Montgomery stands on my stoop, looking, for all intents and purposes, like the loving father he never was. I can’t blame the man. It’s not like he knew I existed, but his very existence irks me, prickling at my nerves until all that’s left is a fire of resentment burning in my gut. With him standing here on my front porch, it feels like a betrayal to my mom.
“What do you want?” I ask, lowering my voice and flexing my bicep.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he says, his blue eyes twinkling under a set of gray bushy eyebrows.
Those eyes are an exact replica of mine and Brooks’s. Most kids can’t wait to be like their dad. I want to be nothing like mine. He was such a sot my mom left him when she found out she was pregnant with me. She was protecting me, but the life we lived without him was just as hard.
“And I’m sure you can find your way out of it too.” My face is stone, giving nothing away—not to this man.
He’s about to open his mouth, but a little voice behind him says, “Papaw Kip, I thought you said there was a bathroom here.”
I look down to find a little girl with blue eyes that match mine and a halo of blonde hair. I haven’t been around many kids in my life, but I would guess she is about three or four. She stares back at me, cocking one eyebrow with mischief sparkling in her eyes. I almost laugh when she scrunches her nose and examines me like she isn’t quite sure she likes what she sees. She reminds me of Georgia—the Georgia before Nate died, fiery and full of life.
“Can we at least use your restroom?” Kip asks, pulling me out of my scrutiny of the girl.
Frowning, I move aside to motion them in. “Bathroom—then you leave.”
I don’t know what game Kip is playing here, but I’ll win. I’m not accustomed to losing, and I don’t play fair. Life taught me that lesson.
I don’t want him in my space.
Once inside, I point to the half bath on the other side of the hall, and the little girl skips down the hall, closing the door behind her. I turn back to Kip, ready to face off now that we don’t have an audience. He’s looking around the foyer like he can learn something about me in this eight-foot opening.
I hate to tell him, but almost everything he sees here is Georgia’s doing. I may have done all the work to fix this place up, but Georgia made it a home for me. The first time I invited her and Nate over whenthe house was complete, they brought pizza, and we sat on the floor eating in the living room. It’s one of the few times I remember feeling content in my life—like I wasn’t going to break under the pressure. As we sat on the ground shoving pizza in our mouths, Georgia jumped up and stared down at Nate and me. Excitement glowed on her face as she bounced on her toes.
“Let’s go shopping,” she’d said, on the edge of combustion.
Nate and I glanced at each other and then back at Georgia, wondering if she had finally lost her mind.
“For what?” I’d asked.
She’d looked at me like I was the one that was crazy.
“Well, we can’t sit on the floor every time we come over, now can we? It should feel like home,” she insisted.
And that’s how every personal touch in my house ended up coming from Georgia. We all three went shopping that night. I handed over my credit card and let her fill the space. I didn’t tell her it already felt like more of a home than I had ever had because it wasn’t tainted with memories I never wanted to relive. I let her have her fun, and now, every day when I come home, I get a piece of Georgia that I would never have gotten otherwise.
