Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
His personal checking account held enough money to pay for simple repairs to his two homes. I’d hired a professional lawn care company to come on Monday. I also purchased several large buckets of indoor paint and other supplies. My mom planned to join us Saturday morning to help tackle the enormous job of getting this house together to list next week.
I made a mental list of tasks that still needed attention before the ‘for-sale’ sign hit the yard: Paint the walls, deep clean the carpets, and move the beater furniture to the curb to be picked up.
“So, you really gave up football?” Scott startled the shit out of me. I spun around, bowed up, my fist drawn. Too many years of psychological abuse had me unappreciative of being caught off guard.
Scott lifted both hands in surrender. “Whoa, buddy, it’s just me.”
There was no way Scott missed the fear that accompanied my wild reaction. I quickly glanced away, pretending to be fascinated with the water faucet on the outside brick wall. The constant drip left the ground underneath muddy and mucky. I carefully turned the rusty knob and let the bucket begin to fill without splashing back at me. Yep, I was a professional bucket filler, and quite possibly losing whatever was left of my mind. “I dropped out of college too.”
“I’m comin’ closer,” Scott announced as his work-boot clad feet came into view.
He didn’t push me for more of an explanation about quitting football, a yes would have sufficed, but I gave it anyway. “I don’t wanna play anymore. Haven’t for a long time. And Samford’s expensive, I can’t afford to be there if I’m not on scholarship.”
“Huh,” Scott said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I fired off while twisting the squeaky knob. With more attitude than necessary, I gripped the handle of the bucket, sloshing water out as I went for the house.
“I wanna know what happened years ago to bring you back to Alabama,” Scott said, again right on my ass. Someone had to teach him about personal space. He needed to back the fuck up and stop all the probing. I’d say whatever I wanted to say. At the base of the steps, I turned toward him, my brows dropping as my stare snapped to his. Why dredge up the past? What did it matter? I’d made it clear from the beginning that I wasn’t willing to discuss this topic. I was on the defense now, a comfortable place to be.
“Don’t give me that look. I ain’t scared of you. You’re like a brother to me. And I have a theory about what happened.”
“What’s that, Einstein?” I shot off sharply then promptly headed back inside, intending to ignore the answer. No doubt chatty back there would follow. My only hope was the slow steady thumping in my chest that sounded like a jackhammer to me, not him.
“I’d rather you tell me,” Scott said quietly. I remained silent and began to disinfect the refrigerator, spraying more Clorox over the surfaces than was probably necessary. Of course, the dog with the bone over there wasn’t going to let anything go. First, came the scrape of a kitchen chair dragged across the floor. Second, Scott took the seat in the loudest way possible, going so far as to let out a grunt.
“My guess? I figure you’re into the wood.” Clearly Scott meant to ease into the conversation with humor, but I wasn’t there with him.
One second, I felt paralyzed. The next, fire whooshed over the length of my body. Heat crept up my neck into my face. A trickle of sweat ran from my right pit. I somehow forgot how to breathe.
“I decided you got away from here and were finally able to be yourself. Your shitty old man didn’t like it and used his influence to bring you back.”
Damn. His guess was pretty spot-on.
I placed the Clorox spray bottle on the shelf, before I dropped it and made a bigger mess.
Shame had me lowering my head and closing my eyes. The word deny flashed in bright neon colors behind my lids. “What’re your other theories?” I managed to ask in a harsh, rough sound, dropping to one knee in front of the open door, unable to stand on two feet.
“He’s gone, bro. I don’t think he ever bounced back from your mom leavin’. Nobody goes at the bottle the way he did without harboring a lot of unresolved issues,” Scott explained, revealing how closely he’d paid attention. “He was always a drinker but never like what he became. It all happened too fast. I think he took you from your mom to hurt her. You were the collateral damage.”
“Then his goals were met,” I mumbled. The strong scent of bleach acted like smelling salts, keeping me in the here and now and bringing me back to my feet. The tendrils of humiliation crawled across my skin, prompting a full body shiver.