Page 87 of Redemption
The darkness is back in his eyes, and I make a mental note to make sure Dad doesn’t have any beer in the refrigerator before I leave.
We walk out, neither of us looking back at the Harrison house as we go.
The drive back to my house is similar to the one on the way here, and once we reach my house, Langston jumps out of my truck without a word.
I follow him, needing to grab something from my room and check the refrigerator before I’m back in my truck, ready to go.
MJ may have disappeared in the hopes that she could avoid this conversation, but Benton Falls is a small town. She can’t hide forever, and she takes my obsession with her for granted.
I’ve given her space because she deserved it, but my patience has run out. I’ll drive all night if it means finding her.
Throwing my truck in reverse, I start to roam the streets of Benton Falls, praying I can win back my girl.
But thirty minutes later, with no sign of MJ, I’m starting to wonder if she left town just to get away from me. The town is fairly small, so I assumed this would be an easy find. Apparently, if she doesn’t want to be found, though, the woman isn’t going to be found.
Picking up my phone, I dial her number only for it to go to voicemail.
I slam my hand against the steering wheel, frustration rippling through me.
“Where are you, MJ?”
Two streets later, I get my answer.
Her car is parked along the curb in front of a house that needs some serious renovations, and when I look closely, she is sitting on the porch, trying to duck out of view.
I honk my horn as I pull up to the curb, letting her know she’s been caught.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I’m out of the truck and racing her way.
She can’t run from me this time.
When I reach the stairs, I slow my gait, letting my steps become slow and even—controlled, even if that control seeping out of my fingers like quicksand.
On the porch, I lean my shoulder against a post, crossing my arms, and look down at MJ, where she’s sitting with her back against the house. She looks up at me, her blue eyes filled with sadness, and I sigh, running my hands through my hair.
I don’t want to make her sad, and if being here does that, I’ll walk away. I don’t want to be another person in her life who hurts her.
“Do you want me to go?” The question is like gravel in my throat, scratchy and uncomfortable.
She shakes her head.
“Do you want me to stay?”
A nod this time, and I lean harder against the post.
“Do you want to talk?”
This time, she hesitates before shaking her head—not denial, but not acceptance either—so I keep quiet until she’s ready, taking in the house behind her.
The foundation is good, but every other part of it is falling apart. Shutters hang on their side, and boards on the porch are rotting. The white paint on the siding is chipping, but underneath all the neglect, there’s potential.
MJ watches me take it all in.
“Who owns this house?”
She stands, dusting off her pants and keeping her eyes on the house, away from me.
“I don’t know. Me someday.” She says it with a shrug, like the idea of her owning this house is a pipe-dream. “And when I do, I’ll fill it with so much laughter and love on the holidays, the people who visit will never want to leave. It won’t be awkward and stilted. We’ll wear whatever we want to, and my kids will be loved. I’ll have enough love for all of them. It’ll be home.”
