Bill clears his throat. “Look, it’s none of my business, but I told your dad I’d keep an eye out for you, after he went.”
I wonder whose idea that was. I’m guessing Bill’s, because my pop never gave a damn how I was doing while he was still alive. But I know Bill’s only trying to help, so I keep my tone even, hiding the anger in my blood. “As you can see, I’m doing just fine.”
He nods thoughtfully. “And we’re all real proud of you.” He waits another moment, but I don’t offer anything more, and eventually he sighs. “Well, you just let me know if you change your mind. I still have some of his things: memorabilia, old mementos he wanted you to have.”
My fists stay clenched at my sides. “Keep them.”
Bill nods again, his expression regretful. “Take care. And watch that speed limit,” he adds, turning to leave. “No more drag racing down Main Street!”
I watch him go, frozen in place there on the porch with every muscle in my body clenched and alert until he gets back into his patrol car and slowly drives away.
I slowly exhale, forcing myself to relax.
He means well, I remind myself. Hell, he probably thought he was doing me a favor, stopping by with word from my old man. He always did try to help. Back in the old days, he was the one who kept Hank out of jail, scraping him off the sidewalk at three in the morning to cool off in the drunk tank. Bill meant well, I know, but sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t complicit in the whole damn thing. Maybe my father might have been forced to shape up if he saw any real consequences.
But then I remind myself my dad had plenty of chances to change. He was scarred too deep, broken in ways nobody could fix. Back then as a kid, I didn’t understand. After mom left, I thought at first I was the one failing him, always making him mad, provoking that whiplash rage that would make him fly off the handle and reach for his belt. I tried so damn hard to keep things quiet, tip-toing around him like an intruder in my own home, scared he would leave me, too. By the time I was old enough to realize it wasn’t my fault, I dove headlong into anger instead. I was so damn mad at him for driving mom away, for drinking himself into an early grave, for never being the father other kids got to have. I’d see the town fathers out around, standing on the sidelines during ballgames, or showing up to parent-teacher nights at school, and it would hurt like hell, the deep-down, empty ache. I was left to struggle alone with that ticking time-bomb getting drunk in the next room. Meanwhile there were men like Bill, who somehow managed to put scars of war behind them, to show up and be decent for their family.
But I was never first for my father. I ranked somewhere below a bottle of Jack Daniels, and bitter memories of the past. We co-existed for as long as possible under the same roof, coming to blows a fair few times. I was counting down the days until my escape. I’d stick around long enough to graduate, and then be gone from that silent house. I had it all worked out.
And then came Eva.
I unlock the door and head inside. What hits me first is the silence. Not tense, or angry, like the way my old place used to be whenever my old man was waiting drunk and bitter in the next room. This is all warmth and sunshine, the rays falling through the big windows and lazily melting over bare wooden floors. It feels the way a home is supposed to, the way Eva’s house did whenever I’d stop by: somewhere to laugh and talk like a real family, not two strangers trapped together out of loathing and twisted DNA. No, this is a real home. Never mind the memories still sleeping out back by the creek.
This morning, though, I know that those red-hot memories are dangerous territory, so I take a sub-zero cold shower to get my head clear and thinking straight. But all the cold water in the world can’t shake the heat when I think about Eva – about the curves of her gorgeous body, and those ripe lips just begging for a kiss. And more.
Damn, she’s not the innocent girl I used to know, and it’s sexy as hell. She’s grown up. I don’t just mean her knock-out body, but the look in her eyes, too. Five years ago, she almost seemed surprised by the force of our passion, but kissing her last night, I saw she knew exactly what she was doing. How to drive me crazy. How to leave me panting for more. In the bright light of day, she can try to deny it, but we were about ten seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off and fucking right there in the street.
So why the hell did I stop?